







ROSELIN 

OR 

A RUBY NECKLACE 


BY 

FREDA VIRGINIA METZ 




W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
HAMMOND, INDIANA 
1913 


Copyright, 1913 

BY 

FREDA VIRGINIA METZ 


HAMMOND PRESS 
W. B. CONKEY COMPANY 
CHICAGO 


©CI,A361053 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Family at Roselin 5 

II. Mr. Allington Goes South 10 

III. Mrs. Wilton 15 

IV. An Invitation 22 

V. The House Party at Lakeview 27 

VI. Changes at Roselin 35 

VII. A Letter from Home 41 

VIII. The Meeting 45 

IX. Shadows 49 

X. After Three Weeks at Roselin 55 

XI. Grace Deceived 63 

XII. A Winter Spent at Roselin 68 

XIII. The Beginning of School 75 

XIV. Llewellyn Greymore 80 

XV. The First Vacation 85 

XVI. After Vacation 88 

XVII. Carlson & Collins’ New Employee 92 

XVIII. Genevieve 99 

XIX. Genevieve in Society 106 

XX. A Night at the Club 114 

XXL The Fever 122 

XXII. Grace Goes to Baltimore 128 

XXIII. General Greymore’s Arrival 132 

XXIV. Llewellyn and Lillian 139 

XXV. “Ah, Genevieve, You Are My Model, My 

Ideal” 147 

XXVI. After Three Years 152 

XXVII. The First Link 156 

XXVIII. Guests at Roselin 162 

XXIX. A Ruby Necklace 166 

XXX. Willard’s Painting 173 

XXXI. The Path of Fate 180 


4 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER page 

XXXII. Genevieve Accused 192 

XXXIII. By the Garden Wall 198 

XXXIV. A Broken Engagement 203 

XXXV. A Fading Lily 207 

XXXVI. Leaving Roselin 217 

XXXVII. An Unexpected Meeting 228 

XXXVIII. The Result of Wilma^s Plan 238 

XXXIX. Willard's Promise 246 

XL. Vale Cottage 259 

XLI. Chester Collins' Love 266 

XLII. Willard and Marie 279 

XLIII. Llewellyn at Vale Cottage 290 

XLIV. Llewellyn’s Secret 303 

XLV. A Proposal Renewed 312 

XLVI. A Setting Sun 322 

XLVII. Wedded 332 


ROSELIN 

OR 

A RUBY NECKLACE 


CHAPTER I 

THE FAMILY AT ROSELIN 

“Yes, Albert, I shall marry her some time in July, and, as 
for my children, I can care for them even better with Evelyn’s 
help.” These were the words which were silently echoing in 
Lillian Allington’s heart as she gazed out over the silent world; 
the soft murmer of voices on the veranda below and the gentle 
rustling of the warm spring wind were the only sounds that 
came to her; but above it all her father’s words kept ringing. 
Could she have been mistaken? Could it have been someone 
else speaking? Ah, no! She could not mistake those soft, deep 
tones. It was her father’s voice; it could be no other, and her 
head sank wearily upon her folded arms, and the slender form 
vibrated with emotion. 

She fancied she saw that father leaving his children to bring 
home to them a new mother. She wondered what that mother 
would be like. Could she be as kind and loving as the mother 
who had left them but one short year ago? The thought of 
another taking that mother’s place and filling her vacant chair 
filled her heart with bitter pain. During the fifteen summers of 
her young life she had scarcely known a sorrow until her 
mother’s death had cast a shadow upon it, and now, as she 
realized that the shadows were becoming deeper, the tears which 
hung on the long lashes rolled softly down her cheeks. 

The door opened and a tall, beautiful girl entered. The 
tresses of dark hair were done high on the well shaped head, 

5 


6 


ROSELIN 


while pretty little curls fell upon the brow. Around her white 
neck was fastened a ruby necklace — the only jewel she 
wore — while her soft white dress contrasted beautifully with her 
dark, brilliant beauty. Advancing toward Lillian, she began: 

'‘Oh, Lillian; you are here, are you? Up here alone in the 
dark! I have looked everywhere for you. I wish you would 
come down to the drawing-room and talk to me. Papa and 
uncle have gone to Ashville — that horrid, dull village ! — and 
Willard has fallen asleep in his chair. I do wish papa had not 
come to Roselin so early this spring. I positively cannot see 
what attraction there is here. Everything is so dull! Just 
because Miss Marcusson's health failed and we had to give up 
our studies, he seemed to think that a sufficient reason for 
coming out here to Roselin. Now, Lilly, do come with me. 
What are you doing here alone? 

Wilma paused and Lillian began: “I — I was just think- 
ing 

“Thinking, always thinking,’’ interrupted her sister. 

“Wilma, did you ever think of papa marrying again?” Lil- 
lian asked. 

“No, Lillian. I never think of such unreasonable things. 
Why, who are you going to have him marry?” she asked, as 
she drew near the white figure by the window and laughed a 
rippling little laugh. 

“Neither had I thought such a thing probable, until I over- 
heard him telling uncle that he would marry her in July,” con- 
tinued Lillian. 

“Lillian! did you hear papa say that? It must have been 
someone else; for whom do you think he would marry? The 
idea is absurd.” 

“But, Wilma, I know whom I heard, and he said something 
about Evelyn helping him care for his children. It was papa’s 
voice; it could be no other.” 

“Care for us; indeed!” burst from Wilma’s lips. “I think 
we are capable of caring for ourselves. Does he think we are 
babies, that we have to have someone to keep us out of mis- 
chief?” 

“He didn’t mean that, Wilma,” said her sister. “But I won- 
der who this Evelyn is?” 


THE FAMILY AT ROSELIN 


7 


“I don’t know who it can be. Evelyn — Evelyn who, I won- 
der.” 

Then after a pause Wilma continued: “That makes but 
little difference, for whoever she is she will expect to manage 
the affairs at Roselin, but she will find it quite a task to manage 
me. A stepmother — horrors!” she exclaimed. “I’m not going to 
trouble myself about it, at any rate until I know it to be true. 
Come, now, and go down to the music-room with me, and say 
nothing about what you have heard.” 

Rising, Lillian slipped her arm through her sister’s, and to- 
gether they descended the stairs. 

3k * * * 

James Allington had dined in the little supper room, with 
his family. After dinner the two Mr. Allingtons left the room 
and sought the cool, pleasant veranda. There they sat in the 
large easy chairs smoking in silence. 

James Allington was a tall, square shouldered man of forty- 
five. His dark hair was threaded with gray, and his face wore 
a thoughtful expression. From his appearance one would know 
that he was a man of society. His brother was almost ten years 
younger, and of a slight build, but in hia appearance, also, was 
the stamp of society. 

Mr. Allington had left his Boston home and come to Roselin, 
his country place, near the village of Ashville, earlier than usual 
this spring, much tO' the displeasure of his daughter Wilma, and 
the delight of Lillian, who liked the country life. His brother 
had accompanied them, intending to remain a few weeks while 
his wife was visiting in New York. 

Mr. Allington at last broke the silence. 

“Albert, what do you think of my marrying again ?” he 
asked abruptly, turning in his chair. 

Albert leaned forward. 

“Well, James,” he returned slowly, “this is the first I have 
heard of it and I hardly know how to answer your question. 
That is a subject wjhich concerns you and your children only.” 

“You remember Evelyn Thornton, do you not?” 

“Yes, I remember her. You and Evelyn were quite fond of 
each other, when you were children together, were you not?” 

“Yes, but somehow we drifted apart. She went south and 


8 


ROSELIN 


some years later married a well-to-do merchant in New 
Orleans.” 

They talked for some time and Mr. Allington finished a 
story of Evelyn’s life in the south by saying: ‘‘Last October, 
while I was in New Orleans, I learned that Mr. Thornton had 
left the city some time before his death, and that his daughter 
was living in a small town several miles from the city. I made 
inquiries, and, as I had some time to spare, I decided to go to 
Western Springs and call. I found Evelyn in a pretty cottage 
there. Of course our old friendship was renewed and — well, 
Albert, you know the rest.” 

“So it is Evelyn Thornton you intend to make your wife,” 
his brother replied, as he brushed the ashes from the end of 
his cigar. “But what about the daughter, James? I suppose 
you intend to bring her here when you marry the mother?” 
queried Albert. 

“Certainly; Grace must go where her mother does. She isn’t 
at all like Evelyn; a very pretty child, but rather delicate.” 

“But, James, what do you think your children will say to 
this marriage? Have you thought of all these things? Have 
you fully decided to marry?” 

“Yes, Albert, I shall marry her some time in July, and as 
for my children, I can care for them even better with Evelyn’s 
help,” was the reply which reached Lillian’s ears. “As yet, I 
have said nothing about it to them, but I shall soon. You say 
Jeanette will not return from New York for a month yet. 
Can’t you make arrangements to stay at Roselin during that 
time?” he asked a moment later. 

Each lighted another cigar, then Albert replied thoughtfully: 

“Well, I don’t know; I had intended going back to Boston 
next week.” 

“I’m going south in a few days, as I have business there,” 
Mr. Allington explained, “and I will stop at Western Springs. 
I may be gone several weeks; I cannot say just when I will 
return, but I would like for you to stay here as long as it is 
convenient.” 

His brother promised to remain at Roselin as long as pos- 
sible, then after awhile they rose and started for the village, 
and nothing more was said of the marriage. 


THE FAMILY AT ROSELIN 


9 


It was quite late before the two gentlemen returned home. 
They found Willard, Wilma and Lillian still in the music- 
room. When they heard the footsteps in the hall they turned 
to greet father and uncle. Perhaps Wilma greeted her father a 
little coldly this evening, but he did not notice. Lillian met 
them with the same sweet smile she always wore. 

‘‘Now just one more song,” said Uncle Albert. Lillian began 
turning over the music then placed a song before her sister. 

“There, uncle; I know your favorite,” she said. 

Mr. Allington was very proud of his children as they sang. 
Willard was a tall, handsome boy of seventeen. He and his 
twin sister looked very much alike, and very different from the 
little golden-haired Lilly. 

“How much my Lillian looks like her mother tonight,” Mr. 
Allington thought. Then his thoughts wandered to the little 
grass-grown grave, by the brookside, just beyond the garden 
wall, and the cold white marble that marked it. 

When the song was finished, he started. He had wandered 
from the present and had been dreaming of the past. Almost 
twenty years ago, he had brought his happy young bride to 
Roselin. Oh, what happy days those had been! But one April 
morning, only a year ago, the heart of their home was called; 
an earthly mound was made by the garden wall, and an expen- 
sive white marble, bearing the name “Margaret Allington,” 
erected by the brookside, where several others were sleeping. 
In a short time he would bring another bride to Roselin and he 
hoped for a future as bright and happy as the past. 


10 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER II 

MR. ALLINGTON GOES SOUTH 

Several days passed at Roselin, and Wilma and Lillian heard 
nothing more of their father^s marriage. Wilma had almost 
decided that Lillian must have been mistaken. 

She was in her room reading a letter which Clarice, the 
maid, had handed her, when she heard her father’s voice calling 
to her from the stairs. He had returned from the office earlier 
than usual, and Wilma felt a chill creep over her as she heard 
him say: 

“Wilma, will you come to the drawing-room a few minutes? 
I have something I wish to say to you.” 

“In just a minute,” was the reply. 

She felt that she could not go down just then. She could 
guess, from the serious tone of his voice, what it was her father 
would say, and she must have a few minutes in which to collect 
herself before she met him in the drawing-room to listen to the 
words that Lillian had heard, and which she had hoped were 
not true. That they were true, she now felt sure. She laid 
aside the letter and pressed her hands to her burning cheeks; 
then she raised the window and the cool air floated in. In a 
few minutes she arose and haughtily descended the stairs. 

Mr. Allington found Willard and Lillian in the garden, where 
they had been setting out some plants which Lillian had brought 
with her from the city greenhouse. When Mr. Allington called 
them they looked up in surprise. Lillian brushed her apron as 
she followed her brother up the walk. She went into the kitchen 
where old Nan was preparing the evening meal. 

“Oh, Nan, don’t I look awful!” she exclaimed, throwing her 
light shawl over the back of a chair and turning for Nan to 
unbutton the big sleeved apron. 

She washed her hands at the kitchen sink, then hastily 
brushed back the tangled curls. The old servant assured her 


MR. ALLINGTON GOES SOXJTH H 

that she looked “fit to meet any lady she’d eber laid her eyes 
on yet/* 

Lillian found her father standing at the window gazing out 
as if in deep thought, while Willard sat turning the pages of a 
book. Just as Lillian leaned against the pillow's of the divan 
the door opened again and Wilma appeared. 

“Papa, I am here,** she said; then Mr. Allington turned from 
the window and faced them. 

“I have something of importance to say to you, my children,’* 
he began ; a moment he hesitated, then continued, “I intend to 
be married soon and I would like, of course, to have the consent 
of my children. I am sure not one of you would object if you 
knew Evelyn Wilton as I do/* He paused. 

Lillian sat quite still, with her hands clasped tightly together. 
Every bit of color had left her cheeks and tears had gathered 
in her eyes. Willard did not look up from the book he held, 
but the words his father spoke struck him as a heavy blow. 

Wilma’s cheeks burned scarlet; her lips quivered, and it was 
with a mighty effort that she kept back the tears. 

“Papa, how can you do such a thing!” she cried; “Our happi- 
ness is now at an end. Do you think our home will be a happy 
one? Oh, just to think of having a stranger here taking 
mamma’s place; one whom our own father loves more than he 
does us.” Her tone was one of mingled pain and reproach. 

“No, no, Wilma, never say that. You know it would be 
impossible for me to love anyone more than I do my children,” 
he replied in a trembling voice. “I am sure our home will be a 
happy one for I feel sure that you will all love Evelyn.” 

After a short pause, during which none of the children 
spoke, he told them of his intended visit to the south. “I shall 
leave in the morning,” he said, “and I shall be very glad to tell 
Mrs. Wilton, when I see her, that my children will welcome her 
to their home.” 

He hesitated for a reply, and Wilma answered as she arose : 

“Welcome her, indeed 1” 

It was a very quiet group that gathered in the dining-room 
a half hour later. The little table was daintily set with delicate 
china and shining silver; the windows were open and the cur- 


12 


ROSELIN 


tains thrown back so that one could look far down the valley 
and across the lake. 

Willard went to the village that evening. He had no desire 
to remain at home where everything was so quiet. Mr. Ailing- 
ton and his brother were busy. Several letters must be written 
and other business attended to preparatory to Mr. Allington’s 
departure. The girls sat for a short time in silence after they 
were left alone. 

‘‘You see, Wilma, I was not mistaken,” said Lillian at last. 

“No! but, Lillian, why didn’t you say something? Neither 
you nor Willard said a word; you just left everything for me,” 
was the impatient reply. 

“There was nothing to say, Wilma; it could do no good,” 
Lillian answered. 

“I don’t care; do you suppose papa really thought we would 
be delighted to ‘welcome her to our home’ as he says?” 

“I suppose he did. He said we would love her, and oh, 
Wilma, I do hope she is as nice as papa seems to think she is, 
and I hope we shall love her.” 

“Love her, indeed I are you losing your mind or what is the 
matter with you, Lillian?” 

“Well, don’t you want her to be nice and good to us?” asked 
Lillian. 

“Stepmothers never are, and I imagine you will find out a 
few things before Mrs. Evelyn is here long. I really shouldn’t 
be surprised to hear you call her ‘mamma,’ first thing.” 

Tears came into Lillian’s eyes, but she did not reply. She 
soon arose, and saying her head ached, went to her room and 
Wilma, tired of being alone, soon followed. 

The next morning was dark and dreary and by the time the 
master of Roselin appeared in the lower rooms, where the 
servants were already busy with their morning work, the drops 
of rain had begun to patter against the windows. 

Lillian came down looking pale and worn, for the headache 
of the previous evening still remained. As she entered the 
kitchen for the shawl she had left there, an interesting con- 
versation was interrupted. 

The servants had often wondered why Mr. Allington went 
south so often and this morning when Ruby, the kitchen girl. 


MR. ALLINGTON GOES SOUTH 


13 


came with the news that ‘^Master Allington’s goin* south again/* 
old Nan said ‘Wal, Ruby, I *low thar’s more ’traction down thar 
than business, fo’ this is the fourth time he’s gone in de las’ 
seben months.” 

^Why, Nan, do you reckon he’s got a girl down there?” 
asked the astonished girl. 

^‘Sho’ I do reckon dat very thing,” answered the old colored 
woman; “but Lo’d-o-massy, I do hope he won’t take a fool 
notion and bring a woman heah to be a bossin’ us ’round. I 
hain’t no use fo’ dem aih so’then ladies, nohow.” 

“Why don’t you like southern ladies, Nan? I don’t think 
I know any of them; are they different from other people?” 

“Lan’ sakes, chil’, I say dey air. Dey’s all stuck up, and 
knows how to boss de servants, too, I should reckon. Jist wait 

till you have one a bossin’ yo’ an’ yo’ll fin’ out. Why, good 

mo’nin’. Miss Lilly. How pale and purty yo’ look dis heah 
lobe’ly mo’nin’,” she continued, as Lillian appeared. 

“I don’t feel very pretty this morning, Nan,” returned Lil- 
lian with a smile. 

“Law, chil’, is yo’ sick?” 

“No, no, only a headache, and I don’t like dark, rainy days. 
I do wish the sun would shine. Where is my shawl. Nan? I 
think I left it here, didn’t I?” 

“Yes, heah it is, honey; I dun laid it over heah whar ’twould 
stay nice.” She took the neatly folded shawl from the corner 
table and gave it to Lillian, who, with a simple “Thank you. 
Nan,” left the room. 

“I do hope dat chil’ ain’t goin’ to be sick. Law, but wouldn’t 
it be a shame if she’d have to have a stepmother. Lo’d, gal, 
don’t you know dat sass is burnin’? It’s most time fo’ breakfas’ 
now, and all you’ve dun dis blessed mo’nin is stan’ ’roun’ and 
talk.” 

Nevertheless breakfast was served in due time, and Mr. 
Allington sat waiting for the carriage which was to be ready 
at nine. 

“Oh, papa, don’t be gone long, for I know we shall be 
awfully lonesome without you,” said Lillian in a pleading voice, 
as she bade him an affectionate farewell. 


14 


ROSELIN 


‘'Yes, dear, I shall be back before long; and I hope my little 
girl will feel better soon,” he said, looking at the pale face. 

She slipped her hand into his and they went into the hall 
together just as Wilma came hurriedly down the stairs. 

“Why, papa,” she said, “you were about to leave before I 
knew it. I didn’t know it was so late.” 

Mr. Allington kissed the pretty face and left them. 

Many times that day, as the train rushed on, carrying him 
farther from home and nearer New Orleans, did he think of his 
children ; — how proud he would be when he could show them to 
Evelyn — his beautiful Wilma, handsome Willard and fair haired 
Lillian. 


MRS. WILTON 


15 


CHAPTER III 

MRS. WILTON 

The little village of Western Springs lay in a quiet, peaceful 
valley a few miles from the large, noisy city of New Orleans. 
At the edge of the village stood a pretty little cottage. The 
southern rambler climbed gracefully up the veranda and the 
crimson blossoms, with which it was loaded, filled the air with 
sweet perfume. 

It was a very cozy home, but very different from the elegant 
place in New Orleans which Mrs. Wilton once called ‘‘home.” 
Almost ten years had passed since she left that home, where 
she had been happy with husband and babies, and for over eight 
years had she lived at the cottage alone with Grace and her 
maid. 

Mrs. Wilton could hardly be called beautiful ; there was 
always a sad expression on her face, and, although only thirty- 
eight years of age, her brown hair was threaded with gray; but 
one who knew her story would not wonder at this. 

Her father had been very wealthy, and her slightest wish 
had always been gratified. Her brothers and only sister were 
older than she, and the family had always loved and petted the 
baby Evelyn. A few months after the family moved south, 
Evelyn, then a young girl of nineteen, had met William Wilton, 
a prosperous merchant in the city, and they had become friends 
at once. In a short time friendship ripened into love. Mr. 
Thornton did not approve of the little love affair and did every- 
thing in his power against it. At last he forbade Evelyn to see 
Wilton and for awhile she obeyed, though her love grew with 
every passing day. 

One day Mrs. Thornton was taken quite ill, and Evelyn 
forgot her love while she kept her untiring watch over her 
mother ; but when the end came and her mother had gone for- 
ever from this world, it was to Wilton she went for comfort. 


16 


ROSELIN 


The father in his grief had forgotten his daughter and her 
lover, and many an hour did they spend together. 

One day she went to her father and poured out all her story. 
She had promised to become William Wilton’s wife. She had 
no other thought but that he would forgive her for those 
stolen meetings and give his consent to the marriage; but she 
was greatly surprised and distressed when the father, whom she 
had loved and who never before had refused her what she asked, 
turned from her. Wilton was an honorable young man, but he 
was not of the class from which Mr. Thornton would choose 
his son-in-law, the husband of his daughter. He was doing 
well in business, but he was by no means what Mr. Thornton 
would call a wealthy man. ‘It must never be,” he said to him- 
self as Evelyn left the room without a word of hope. 

A week later she went to him again. Her sister Carrie had 
been there before her, pleading her sister’s cause. And as 
Evelyn came in, he noticed the sad white face and it softened 
his heart and he spoke tenderly to her. She repeated the story 
of her love and this time he listened. When she had finished 
he arose from his chair and said : “Evelyn, I have loved you and 
tried to make you happy; if you think you will be happier with 
him than me, go to him — marry him. Evelyn,” he continued in 
a cold, hard voice, “most fathers would send you from them 
and never look upon your face again if you dared disobey 
them. I will not do that; I cannot do it; but remember this, 
you may some day regret your rash act, my child.” 

William Wilton was determined to give his wife a beautiful 
home and every comfort she enjoyed at home. He purchased a 
beautiful residence on one of the most fashionable streets in 
the city, and he was sure Evelyn would be pleased with her 
new home. Many an expensive piece of furniture was pur- 
chased, and when some time later he took his young bride to 
his home, she was delighted to think it was hers and William’s. 
In a short time her father left the city and went west with 
Carrie and the boys, and Evelyn felt quite lonely for awhile, 
but her love for her husband and her interest in home duties 
soon drove away all thought of loneliness. 

After several years two bright babies were added to their 
number. First a little boy with dark curly ringlets, then a 


MRS. WILTON 


17 


brown-eyed daughter, four years younger. Several times during 
those eight happy years their doors were thrown open to 
society; then came a sad day. William Wilton stood on the 
brink of failure. For weeks he worked day and night to save 
a part of his fortune, but when the last creditor was paid, there 
was little left for the family. Mr. Thornton had died the year 
before, leaving only a small portion of his fortune to Evelyn, 
and now thoughts turned to Wiltoii’s people, in England, and he 
decided to go at once and see what he could do. Perhaps he 
could go into business with his father, and thus regain his lost 
fortune. 

He took Eldred with him^ and, if he decided to remain, 
Evelyn and little Grace were to come later with a party of 
friends. They parted with hopes of a prosperous future in 
England. 

Evelyn never forgot that parting; how she took her darling 
boy in her arms and kissed him again and again. She was 
saying good-bye for a much longer tinie than she knew, for 
they sailed out on a quiet blue sea in the ill-fated vessel, 
Atlanta. She never forgot the kisses her husband pressed on 
her lips and brow^ — the very last he would ever give her. Then, 
standing on the wharf, she watched as they waved the last 
good-byes from the deck. She watched until they disappeared 
from view and nothing could be seen but a vast stretch of blue 
waters; then she caught little Grace tightly in her arms and 
hurried back to her home, heartily wishing that she had gone 
with them instead of waiting until later. 

It was a long week that followed for Evelyn, without a 
word from the Atlanta — ^then came the dreadful message. The 
Atlanta had sunk only a few miles from Cuba; only five were 
saved to tell how their fellow-passengers had gone down to a 
watery grave on the ocean bed. Three rescue boats had gone 
to their aid, but the wind was so strong that two of them were 
soon carried out of reach of the sinking vessel. One was left 
to help the drowning victims; then after a fierce struggle with 
the wind and waves the life-saving boat, landed on the Cuban 
shore. As Evelyn glanced down the list of the lost, her eyes 
fell upon ^William Wilton and son.’^ She uttered one cry of 
pain, then became unconscious. For several weeks she hovered 


2 


18 


ROSELIN 


between life and death. When at last consciousness returned 
she asked the nurse if it were a horrid dream, but the nurse 
bade her be quiet and sleep. Then it all came back to her; 
she knew it was not a dream. Then she thought of Grace and 
she knew that for her sake she must live. What would her 
baby do with neither father nor mother? She would be left 
alone with no one to care for her. It must not be — she must 
live ; and from that time she began to grow stronger day by day. 

She must leave her home, for it was no longer hers. Her 
father had left her “Vale Cottage’’ at Western Springs, and 
there she and Grace would go. At present it was rented and 
she must wait almost a year. Of her handsome furniture, which 
had not been touched by the creditors, she kept enough to 
furnish her cottage and the remainder was sold. Two small 
rooms were rented and one bright spring day she, with her 
only maid, Delia, left her elegant home for the dark little 
rooms, which for a year were to be her home. All the other 
servants were dismissed. She had fallen from the society 
which had once been proud of the rich Miss Thornton and the 
elegant Mrs. Wilton. Now those who had once been her friends 
had forgotten her. 

The year passed and she left New Orleans and took posses- 
sion of her little home. There she was quite comfortable. 
Grace grew to be a pretty child. She looked much like her 
father, with her dark hair and brown eyes. She was her 
mother’s constant companion outside of school hours, and to 
her Mrs. Wilton longed to give every advantage she herself 
had received when a young schoolgirl. But she found that with 
her limited means, she must trust her education to public in- 
structors, at the village school, and the thought of giving Grace 
a governess was put aside. 

Mrs. Wilton was very much surprised when, one morning 
late in October, Delia came to her room with a card bearing 
the name of James Allington. She was very glad to see him, 
for it had been many years since they had met. They spoke of 
old friends in a conversational way, and at last, by devious 
paths he brought the conversation back to their youth; then 
she told him the sad story of her life and he -spoke many 
sympathizing words. When he left her he said : “Evelyn, I 


MRS. WILTON 


10 


come south on business quite often and when I have spare 
time I shall be pleased to visit Vale Cottage, if I may/’ She 
assured him that he would be a welcome visitor at the cottage 
any time he found it convenient to come. 

Evelyn seemed more like herself that evening than she had 
for years. She had talked of her younger days with an old 
friend and she felt better for it. After Mr. Allington was gone 
she sat thinking of the past and of the future. Grace was 
her only comfort — the one bright star that shone upon her 
horizon. Had William lived, how different would have been 
her story. Had her father divided his property equally between 
his children, her daughter could, at least, have received an edu- 
cation such as the mother wished for her — ^but that could not be. 
* * * * 

Mr. Allington came again to Vale Cottage. He was staying 
several weeks in the south, and he came to call often. The last 
day of his visit he startled Mrs. Wilton by declaring his love 
for her. She had liked James Allington when they were chil- 
dren, but she had loved since then, and she had never thought 
of the fancy of her childhood until now; but she liked him 
still. She told him that she could never go to his home, take 
her place as mistress there, and be a stepmother to his chil- 
dren. No, never ! They, she knew, would not consent to their 
father’s marriage, and without it she would not consent to 
become his wife. ‘‘Your first duty is to care for your children 
and do nothing to make them unhappy,” she said. Then he 
described to her the loving, tender-hearted Lillian. “I know 
she will love you,” he said; “and I know all of my children 
will welcome you and Grace to our home. Grace will receive 
every advantage my children do.; that will be a great thing for 
her, Evelyn, and I am sure you will both be happy. Willard 
and Wilma, in a few years, will leave for college, then Lillian 
and I will be alone. With you and Grace we will be much 
happier.” Mrs. Wilton would not give her consent then; she 
would write it later. She must think a while. After he had 
gone she found how much his presence had really meant to her. 
She had looked forward to each call, and, now that he was 
gone, she began to wonder if she really loved him. She had 
never thought of love for anyone but her lost William. 


20 


ROSELIN 


When she wrote her answer to Mr. Allington, she thought 
of the interest of her daughter quite as much as of her own. 
Grace would be happy there. She would receive every advan- 
tage and could go in better society than she otherwise could. 
She would try to be a mother to his children; try to make 
them happy, and perhaps they would learn to love her; and, 
with these thoughts uppermost in her mind, she wrote her 
consent. 

Letter after letter came to Vale Cottage, bearing the Boston 
post-mark, urging her to an early marriage. She would rather 
go to Roselin first. ‘'Some time in July,” she had said, “when 
you are settled in the country, then you may claim me as 
your wife — not until.” 

* jk * * 

The sun shone bright and warm over the little village and 
at Vale Cottage everything looked bright and happy. The birds 
w^ere warbling their morning songs and the roses in the garden 
were nodding in the gentle breeze. 

Mr. Allington walked slowly down the broad avenue toward 
the cottage. He had left the dark, stormy north, and now 
drank in all the beauty of the south. The trees that shaded the 
avenue stood in long, stately rows on each side, and in the dis- 
tance he could see the rose-covered cottage, shadowed by the 
branches of the sweet magnolia trees. Evelyn was there — his 
Evelyn — how he longed to claim her as his very own. He 
quickened his step and was soon at the gate. 

A week passed — ^yet he lingered at the cottage. One day 
he was telling Evelyn of Roselin and ended by saying: “Evelyn, 
you said you would come to us when we were settled at Rose- 
lin; we are there now, but it is not yet July. Don’t you think 
you could give an earlier date?” 

“I hadn’t thought of going earlier,” was the reply. 

“Yes, but we are there much earlier than we expected, and 
I think it would be well for you to go back with me. We can 
easily arrange things. My children do not expect the marriage 
until July, but it makes no difference with them; I dare say 
they will be glad to see us coming. Say the first of June, dear, 
and I will write them this very day.” 

“I suppose it will be as well, but Grace feels rather timid 


MRS. WILTON 


21 


about going to a fine home like you describe, though I feel 
sure she will like it after awhile.’^ 

That afternoon Mr. Allington puzzled over his letter; how 
should he tell his children that when he returned he would 
bring with him his wife and her daughter. As yet he had not 
even mentioned Grace. What would Wilma say? Would she 
really be “glad to see them coming’’ as he had told Evelyn? 
Lillian would say nothing against it, he felt; but Wilma — would 
she treat Evelyn as she should treat his wife? 

Preparations began at once for the little wedding. 

A short trip was to be taken through the south before Mr. 
and Mrs. Allington went to Roselin. Grace had planned to 
spend the week with a friend in Western Springs, and Delia, as 
Mr. Allington had written home, was to see to the packing at 
Vale Cottage, then go to Roselin, where she was to arrange 
the rooms for the mistress and her daughter. 


22 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER IV 

AN INVITATION 

The days passed slowly at Roselin and Wilma longed to be 
back in the city, until one day the mail came, bringing an invita- 
tion to Lakeview. 

“Isn't it dear of Mrs. Carrelton to think of us? I am per- 
fectly delighted!" Wilma cried rapturously. “This is far better 
than the city. Think of a two weeks' house party at Lakeview 
with Mrs. Carrelton and Marie. Isn't it glorious I" and she 
danced gayly about the room, waving Mrs. Carrelton's letter in 
the air. 

“Great!" shouted her brother, bouncing up from his nap 
and joining the dance. “Two weeks at Lakeview will be jolly!" 

“Now I’ll have something good to tell Genevieve when she 
comes !" 

Wilma stopped short and frowned angrily upon her sister. 

“Genevieve Layton ! Horrors, Lillian ! I’d been hoping you 
had forgotten her!" 

“Forgotten Genevieve? No, indeed! I've just come from 
there. I’ve seen her every day since we came to Roselin." 

“You’d better tell her you are engaged for this evening,” 
returned Wilma. 

“But I'm not engaged !" Lillian answered. 

Genevieve Layton was the daughter of a poor but honest 
farmer who had died several years before, leaving his wife 
alone to care for the two children and her invalid mother. 
Though the struggle had been a hard one, Mrs. Layton had 
succeeded in keeping her children in school until they had 
both — first Robert, then Genevieve — completed the high school 
course taught in the village ; and Genevieve, along with her school 
work, had managed to assist with the office work at one of the 
village stores. 

They were the nearest neighbors of the Allingtons, and 
Genevieve and Lillian had always been friends. During the 


AN INVITATION 


23 


summer days, as they rambled through the leafy wood or rested 
on the long green slopes, near the sparkling lake, Lillian would 
relate many a story of her winter’s schooling or of parties she 
had attended in the city, and Genevieve was always interested. 

According to her promise, Genevieve came to Roselin that 
evening and found Lillian waiting for her in the garden. 

'‘Oh! Genevieve, we are going away Thursday to be gone 
two weeks,” exclaimed Lillian, delightedly, taking both her 
friend’s hands and pressing them affectionately in hers. 

“Are you, Lillian? I shall miss you dreadfully. It will 
seem lonely now without you.” 

“I do wish you could go with us, Genevieve. Wilma, Wil- 
lard and I are going to a house party at Mrs. Carrelton’s. It 
will be grand, for everything she has is always so perfectly 
planned. She is one of the leading ladies in Boston during the 
fashionable season there, but she spends several months each 
year at her beautiful country home. Her daughter, Marie, is 
just Wilma’s age and is very popular, although she isn’t as 
pretty as Wilma. I really think Marie would like for Willard 
to make love to her.” The last sentence was confided to Gene- 
vieve' in a whisper; then Lillian arose to call Wilma to play 
some songs before Genevieve left, but Wilma only answered: 

“I think you had better be making preparations for going to 
Mrs. Carrelton’s, Lillian. I have no time for music this even- 
ing,” and she continued to examine the lace on the thin party 
dress Clarice had laid before her. 

Robert was to have come for his sister at nine, but an hour 
passed and, as he did not come, Lillian proposed walking home 
with her friend. 

“Willard,” she called at the library door, “will you walk 
down to Mrs. Layton’s with Genevieve and me ? Bob hasn’t come 
and Genevieve says she must go home tonight.” 

“I shall be delighted to go with you,” said Willard, laying 
down his book and coming into the hall. 

Lillian ran up to her room for a shawl, and Wilma re- 
marked with a sneer : 

“I think I would have my brother take that girl home if I 
were you, Lillian Allington I ” 

Lillian was soon in the hall again where Geneyieve and 


24 


ROSELIN 


Willard were waiting, and taking his hat from the halltree, 
Willard opened the door and the three passed out into the cool 
night air. The clock on the church steeple at the village was 
striking ten and the deep, mellow tones sounded like sweet 
music as they echoed and re-echoed among the huge branches 
of the trees and were then carried away on the May breeze. 
The full moon was shining brightly above the trees that bor- 
dered Roselin on the east and the sky was studded with stars. 
It was only a short walk and they did not hurry for it was 
pleasant walking down the moon-lit lane, shaded here and there 
by a tall maple. As they parted at the gate, Lillian said: 

‘‘Now, Genevieve, I do hope you will come over again before 
I go. Won^t you come?’^ 

“You will be so busy, I am afraid I shall bother you, Lil- 
lian. I fear I have kept you from your arrangements this 
evening.’^ 

“Oh, bother their arrangements!” said Willard; “Wilma is 
always making a fuss over a new dress, or making over an old 
one that doesn’t need it, but Lillian isn’t so bad. You will not 
bother Lillian, Genevieve.” 

“No, indeed, you won’t. Please come,” added Lillian, and 
they turned their footsteps toward home, calling back “good- 
night” to Genevieve, who stood at the gate watching them as 
they hastened down the lane. 

“Wilma never has liked Genevieve, because she isn’t one of 
‘our class’ she always says; but she is my friend, and Wilma 
should treat her as such, but she simply will not do it,” said 
Lillian sadly, when the little brown house was left in the dark- 
ness and only the faint light gleamed from the window. 

“No, she will not, Lillian,” Willard replied, and they walked 
on in silence. 

The next day was Sunday, and the carriage drove up to 
convey the family to the village church. Wilma wore her 
proudest air, and as they passed Genevieve at the door she did 
not even recognize her with a bow, but brushed haughtily past 
and followed the usher to the cushioned pew which the Ailing- 
tons always occupied. Lillian noticed her sister’s haughty cold- 
ness, and slipping her arm around Genevieve she whispered: 

“Never mind Wilma, dearie; and remember, I shall expect 
you to see me before I go to Mrs. Carrelton’s.” 


AN INVITATION 


25 


Genevieve smiled and nodded, and Lillian hurried on to 
join her sister. 

Albert Allington, finding it necessary to return home, took 
the train for Boston on the following day and on Thursday the 
carriage was again seen at the depot. This time it carried 
Willard and his sisters, and the servants at Roselin were left 
alone. After much packing of the delicate silks, fine rose- 
colored brocades and thin crepe tissue party dresses, the girls 
were at last ready. Genevieve, who came to Roselin the day 
preceding their departure, looked on in amazement, while 
Wilma, with Lillian's help, folded dress after dress and placed 
them carefully in their traveling trunks. 

When the little station of Greenfield, some fifteen miles 
from Boston, was reached, Wilma called to Willard and Lillian, 
who sat on the opposite side of the car: 

‘^Oh, look! there is Mrs. Carrelton's carriage waiting for 
us." 

As she arose from her seat, one of her gloves fell from her 
lap. The young man who sat in the seat just behind her had 
heard the remark about the Carrelton carriage, and sat intently 
watching the young girl. The blue broadcloth traveling suit 
fitted perfectly, and a pretty blue hat crowned the masses of 
dark, waving hair. The man leaned forward, took up the little 
glove, and returning it to her, bowed politely. 

*T beg your pardon; you attend Mrs. Carrelton's party, I 
believe." 

Wilma answered in the affirmative and left the car, won- 
dering who the tall, handsome stranger could be, and what he 
knew of Mrs. Carrelton's party. Two other guests entered the 
Carrelton carriage and were swiftly rolling through the village. 
As Wilma looked up from smoothing down the folds of her 
dress, she was surprised to see the fair-haired man she had 
seen in the car, seated opposite. Then he was one of Mrs. 
Carrelton’s guests, too. Oh, wasn't he handsome! So tall and 
stately! and such a frank, open countenance. 

The road after leaving the village streets, led through a 
beautiful park. The tall trees were whispering softly, and the 
music of the fountains could be heard, as the carriage moved 
down the broad drive. Lillian was delighted with the scenery 


26 


ROSELIN 


and when she saw the clear blue lake sparkling in the distance, 
she longed for a row on its smooth surface. 

'‘Willard, you must take me for a row tomorrow! It will 
be delightful, and we haven’t had a single one since we went to 
Roselin,” she said, with a happy smile. 

While Lillian was enjoying the scenery, Wilma and the other 
guest — Frances Higdon, a young lady from Baltimore — were 
talking gayly of Boston and its people. 

“Oh, didn’t we enjoy the ball Mrs. Carrelton gave for us!” 
Miss Higdon was saying. 

“Yes, it was perfectly grand,” returned Wilma. 

“I am confident her house-party will be just as nice; every- 
thing she has is a success.” 

“And she has such a pretty place. Isn’t the lake beautiful,” 
said Wilma — Lillian’s remark drawing her attention to the lake. 
“So calm and serene, isn’t it?” 

“Beautiful hardly describes it,” answered Miss Higdon, 
when a turn in the road brought the lake directly into view; 
“it is more than beautiful. I am like your sister; I long for a 
row, and I am sure we shall have one before many days. Miss 
Lillian.” 

The carriage drove up a long hill and stopped before a large 
beautiful building, with towers and turrets and large bay win- 
dows. The majestic old oaks were wearing bright green, and 
they bent their stately heads as if to welcome the guests to 
Lakeview. 


THE HOUSE PARTY AT LAKEVIEW 


27 


CHAPTER V 

THE HOUSE PARTY AT LAKEVIEW 

Marie herself led Wilma and Lillian to their room. It was 
a pretty little apartment commanding a view of the lake. The 
room was perfumed from bouquets of roses that stood on the 
marble mantel over the fireplace, where the bright flames were 
now flickering. The evening was cool, although it was the first 
of June, and Mrs. Carrelton thought it would add to the com- 
fort of her guests to have a little fire in their rooms. Nothing 
could have been prettier than that little room with its snow- 
white bed, draped with curtains of delicate blue. 

‘‘Come, Lillian, we must hurry and dress for dinner,’^ said 
Wilma, as she took from her trunk a pretty dress of rich 
green voile. “I think I shall wear this,’^ she added, shaking out 
the folds. 

Lillian looked like a little fairy, in her soft, white dress, 
with pale blue ribbons, as she went down the broad staircase 
with her queenly sister. 

They entered the drawing-room where they found most of 
the other guests. 

“How sweet you do look,” said Mrs. Carrelton, softly, rising 
to meet them. “Let me see,” she said thoughtfully; “I think 
you know all my guests excepting Mr. Mandel. May I intro- 
duce the Misses Allington, Mr. Mandel : Miss Wilma and Miss 
Lillian.” 

Then as the other guests entered the room, the dinner bell 
sounded and they left the handsomely furnished drawing-room 
and entered the magnificent dining-room. Everything was ar- 
ranged with perfect splendor there. The grand old silver shone, 
in the rose-colored light, and a bouquet of rich red roses stood 
in the center of the table, which was neatly set with delicate 
china. 

After dinner they went for a walk through the moon-lit 
park. Willard and Marie led the merry party as they descended 


28 


ROSELIN 


the long hill, while Wilma found Mr. Mandel a very congenial 
companion. 

They returned by way of the gardens, which were beautiful 
in the moonlight, with the winding walks, statues, urns and 
bubbling fountains. 

The next day was spent in boat-riding. Everyone enjoyed a 
ride on the lake. Four boats were in use. Willard was rowing 
for Lillian and Adelaide Richard; Marie and Wilma occupied 
Louis MandeFs boat, while Miss Higdon was rowing for Mrs. 
Carrelton. The fourth was occupied by three other guests. 

The day was warm, the sun shone brightly, and the tall 
grass on the banks waved gently in the breeze, but the surface 
of the lake was clear and calm, excepting where the little boats 
were plowing the smooth surface. 

Willard pulled his boat alongside Louis’. “Mrs. Carrelton 
has great plans for tomorrow,” he began; “we are going to 
play tennis before lunch, then we may go horse-back riding.” 

“Won’t that be fine?” asked Lillian and Adelaide simultane- 
ously. 

“Capital !” returned Louis. 

“Oh, I do love riding,” said Wilma. 

“How about the fishing party you two have been planning?” 
interrogated Marie. 

“Can’t that be postponed until later? Riding is so much the 
better,” said Wilma. 

“No, indeed. Miss Wilma; remember your promise,” Louis 
answered. 

“Did I promise, Marie?” she asked smilingly. 

“I think you did, Wilma,” was the answer. 

“Very well then; I never break a promise, but must we give 
up both tennis and riding?” 

“We can join in the riding at least,” Louis answered. 

As Mrs. Carrelton left the lake Marie joined Miss Higdon; 
but Lillian exclaimed: 

“Please, Marie, take my place and let me row for Miss 
Higdon. Willard won’t let me row his boat.” And Marie, who 
was anxious for a place in Willard’s boat, exchanged places 
with her. Marie had felt disappointed that afternoon when 
Adelaide had taken the place she had fully expected to occupy 


THE HOUSE PARTY AT LAKEVIEW 89 

herself, and now she mentally wished that her friend Miss 
Adelaide were in Boston. 

The next morning the sun shone brighter than usual, and 
everyone was happy at Lakeview. Before nine, the young 
people had gathered at the tennis courts. 

Where is Miss Allington and Mr. Mandel?” asked several. 

^T saw them going toward the lake almost an hour ago,'' 
answered Miss Higdon. ^T think they Were going fishing. Mr. 
Mandel was carrying rods and tackle." 

“I wish they had ^ extended the invitation," said Adelaide 
Richard; and several others agreed with her. 

Mr. Mandel was exceedingly polite to everyone and Wilma 
liked his kindly manner; while he had never been more content 
than now, when she was near. He liked to listen to her gay 
words and merry laughter and to watch the pretty face. He 
felt that he had known her for many weeks, instead of the 
few days they had spent together at Mrs. Carrelton’s. They 
were on the lake again. Wilma wore a large w’hite sun hat that 
shaded her face from the morning sun. It was tied with a 
large bow beneath her chin, and Louis thought she could never 
be prettier than she was that morning. 

In the afternoon the groom brought six pretty horses to the 
gate, where a laughing group was awaiting them. Some of the 
guests were again on the lake, as they preferred rowing to 
riding. 

^'Select each your horse, girls, and let's be off," said Marie, 
like this one," said Lillian, laying her hand on the neck 
of a gentle bay that bore her own name; and Louis Mandel 
lifted her gently to the saddle. The white-footed sorrel was 
chosen by Adelaide and the two girls rode off together. 

‘‘Oh, dear!" exclaimed Wilma; “if this pretty black only 
had the other saddle on, he should be mine." She turned to the 
groom. “Would it be asking too much to have the saddles 
changed? I just must ride him," she added to her companions. 

“No trouble at all. Miss, but Joker is rather a spirited ani- 
mal. The ladies never ride him," the groom answered, as he 
prepared to obey. 

“I am not afraid. I like a horse that has some life," re- 
turned Wilma. 


30 


ROSELIN 


“Joker may have mare than you care for, Wilma,” said 
Marie, who was seated on Kid, her favorite riding horse. “I 
never ride him, but Louis will take care of you, I suppose.” 

“Certainly,” returned the young man, as he and Willard 
mounted their steeds, and they were soon dashing down the 
hill and through the park, calling merrily to those in the boats, 
as they passed the lake. 

Marie was never happier than she was that afternoon. She 
seemed to discover new beauties in every object, when Willard 
was near her, and for many days following she managed to 
keep him at her side, always frowning when she saw him con- 
versing or rowing with Adelaide. The sun had disappeared 
beneath the horizon before they returned to Lakeview, and Mrs. 
Carrelton smiled a knowing smile, as she saw Willard help 
Marie to dismount, and saw her daughter’s radiant face as they 
came into the room. 

“Mrs. Carrelton, I must have a ride on Joker every day. 
He is the best saddle horse I have ever ridden,” said Wilma, 
who was delighted with the ride. 

Every day after that the horses were brought from the 
stables and Joker always bore the saddle which Wilma used. 

One day a number of the party were playing tennis when 
some one called: “Listen! what is that?” 

“The clatter of horses’ hoofs in the park,” came the quick 
answer. 

“Coming at a terrific speed,” added some one, and all 
looked up in astonishment as Joker, with mane and tail stream- 
ing, rein hanging, and without a rider, dashed past the house 
and on to the stables. 

“What has happened?” cried Lillian, with white, trembling 
lips. 

Willard did not wait for words, but ran to the stable and, 
taking Joker’s rein, was in the saddle before anyone thought 
of a plan of action. As he reined the horse in at the gate, 
where the excited mistress, guests and servants had gathered, 
he said: 

“Some one may be hurt, Mrs. Carrelton. From all appear- 
ances Wilma has been thrown from her horse and if I do not 
return soon it might be well to ” 


THE HOUSE PARTY AT LAKEVIEW 


31 


Here Mrs. Carrelton interrupted him. “I shall send a car- 
riage immediately, Willard. It may be needed, but I hope and 
pray nothing serious has happened.’’ 

“They intended riding on the South Boston road,” he called 
back, as he galloped down the hill. 

“What a thoughtful boy he is ; what would I give for such 
a son,” thought Mrs. Carrelton, as Willard and Joker dis- 
appeared down the drive. 

The carriage was soon at the gate. No one could persuade 
Lillian to stay at the house. She would go; she must know 
the worst. “Let me go to my sister,” she cried, and no one 
could refuse her; so it was Lillian and Marie who entered the 
carriage and were quickly driven down the road, through the 
village, and out on the South Boston road, over which Joker 
had flown only a short time since. 

Louis and Wilma had gone for a ride alone that evening. 

“I know we shall be late for dinner, Mr. Mandel,” said his 
companion, as she looked at the sinking sun and turned her 
horse’s head toward Lakeview. The road was wide and smooth 
and the horses, anxious to reach home, quickened their pace, 
until Wilma drew up on the rein. 

“What a beautiful road,” she said, looking down a lane 
leading to the right. 

“Would you like to ride down that way?” asked her com- 
panion. 

“Some other time, perhaps, but it is too late this evening.” 

“We can go that way and enter the South Boston a mile 
this side of the village, if you choose.” 

“I shall certainly enjoy it!” exclaimed Wilma, and they 
were soon riding down the shady lane. 

They were several miles from Lakeview when upon turning 
a bend in the road, Wilma’s horse became frightened and, with 
a sudden bound, threw his rider from the saddle and ran down 
the road at a furious pace. 

“Merciful heavens !” exclaimed Louis, and in a moment he 
was kneeling by her side with her head pillowed on his arm. 
Her face was very white and she did not move. He took the 
icy hand in his large warm one and as he felt the faint throb 
of the pulse a fervent “Thank God!” burst from his lips in a 


32 


ROSELIN 


hoarse whisper. He remembered the little brook they had just 
crossed and, leaving Wilma lying on the grass by the roadside, 
he hurried back. In much less time than one would think, he 
was again at her side, bathing the cold white brow with the 
water he had carried in his hat. 

It was several minutes, but it seemed like hours to Louis, 
before the large brown eyes opened and looked wonderingly at 
him. 

“Don’t be frightened, dear,” he said softly; “you’ll be all 
right now.” 

“The last thing I remember, I was riding Joker,” she said 
weakly, as her head sank heavily back upon his arm. 

“Yes, but you shall never ride him again,” was the firm reply. 

“But I am not hurt;” and freeing herself from the strong 
arms that held her, she attempted to rise to her feet, but 
quickly sat down upon the green bank again. “I can’t stand — I 
feel as though I shall faint,” she gasped, burying her face in 
her hands. Again his arm was around her and he said gently: 

“Let me bathe your face, Wilma, and I am sure you will feel 
better soon.” 

“I’m all right now,” she said, a few minutes later, the drops 
of water glistening on her hair and brow. “Everyone will be 
so frightened when Joker reaches Lakeview without us. Oh, 
what shall we do ! I must at least ride to the first farm house.” 

Louis knew that they would not reach a house until they 
came to the South Boston road and that was more than a mile; 
but the sun had disappeared beneath the western horizon and 
Wilma would not consent to being left alone, so what better 
could they do? 

“Do you think you can ride liow?” he asked, as the summer 
twilight began to fall around them. 

“Oh, I must!” was the reply; and leading his horse close 
to the grassy bank he lifted her gently and placed her in the 
saddle. 

* * * * 

Mile after mile galloped Willard, thinking every one would 
be the last of the search. On and on he went, until at last he 
turned baqk in despair. Where could they have gone? He 
knew they intended riding on this road, for Louis had told him 


THE HOUSE PARTY AT LAKEVIEW 


33 


as much, saying that it was the prettiest road near, and that 
they had ridden in every other direction. He stopped at several 
places to make inquiries but could hear nothing of importance. 
He was heartily discouraged and convinced that he was on the 
wrong road, when he met the carriage. 

“Have you found them?’’ asked two anxious voices simul- 
taneously. 

“No. I’ve looked every place on this road, and I’m sure, 
went farther than they would have gone, and I can’t hear a 
thing from them. No one has seen a runaway horse on this 
road. I think I’ll ask at this place, though.” 

“Oh, dear! will we ever find them,” cried Lillian, as they 
waited for Willard’s return. 

“They may have gone back by the lane,” he called to them, 
as he hurried down the walk and sprang into the saddle. “The 
lady here thinks they passed going north, but the horse didn’t 
return this way. They may have turned into ‘Lover’s Lane’ as 
this lady called it. I’m going to try it at any rate,” and turning 
back, he dashed off leaving the carriage to follow. 

The last rays of the sun had faded and the stars, one by 
one, were peeping out from the solid blue above, as Willard 
turned into Lover’s Lane. Here and there along the green 
hedge bordering either side of the road were tall trees, and 
now and then Joker would spring from one side of the road 
to the other as some new object appeared in the shadow. 

Louis and Wilma were making slow progress toward home. 
Her head and back ached and she felt so weak she at last gave 
up, saying she could not ride farther. Louis was preparing to 
help her from the horse when a dark figure, that of horse and 
rider, appeared over the top of a distant hill behind them. 

“Perhaps that is someone who can help us,” said Louis, 
as the horseman came nearer and nearer. 

“Is anyone hurt?” shouted a voice, as Willard came near to 
them; and in a moment he was at Wilma’s side. 

“But, Willard, why didn’t you bring a carriage?” Wilma 
said impatiently. 

“But how did this happen?” he asked. 

Louis related the story, while they helped her from the 
horse and seated her by the roadside to wait for the carriage. 


3 


34 


ROSELIN 


In a short time it came, and Wilma was glad to recline on the 
soft velvet cushions. 

Everything was in a state of excitement at Lakeview until 
the two boys arrived. 

*‘The young lady will be all right in a few days,’* the doctor 
said to Mrs. Carrelton. ‘‘It was certainly a hard fall but I 
think she will be better soon.” 

It was several days before Wilma could join the others on 
the lawn and lake. All day she sat at the window in a large 
easy chair, with pillows around her, watching the others while 
they rowed on the lake or played tennis. Occasionally Louis 
was with them, but he was very kind to her and spent hours 
in her room talking or reading to her, while Lillian was always 
thinking of her sister’s comfort. 

Many a time did Wilma wish she had taken good advice and 
left the saddles as they were the first morning. Everyone was 
kind to her but she longed to join in the pleasures the others 
were enjoying, just as a bird in a cage longs for its freedom. 

When she was well again, she and Louis often went for a 
row, and when the others went for a ride they never joined 
them, but rambled through the park or gardens instead. 

Those happy days soon passed, and before anyone realized 
the fact the two weeks were at an end. 


CHANGES AT ROSELIN 


35 


CHAPTER VI 

CHANGES AT ROSELIN 

Meanwhile^ at Roselin everything was astir. The maid 
Delia had arrived with Mrs. Allington's belongings and was 
busily engaged preparing the rooms for the bride and her 
daughter, while the old servants looked on in horror. 

The day after the departure of Willard and the girls, Mr. 
Allington’s letter had arrived, but in some way it had been 
misplaced and never reached the ones for whom it was in- 
tended; therefore, no thought of their father's marriage marred 
their happiness While they were at Lakeview. When the tele- 
gram came to Roselin, a few days later, announcing the mar- 
riage and ordering the carriage sent to meet Delia the following 
day, the servants were surprised beyond measure. Nan de- 
clared: *The children shall neber hea’ dis, fo* 'twould spile dar 
visit and dar's no use to sen' dem wurd nohows." Then she 
added to Ruby: ^^Didn't I tel' yo' so, gal; though I didn't 'low 
'twould be so suddin." 

Upon her arrival, Delia surveyed the lower rooms and asked : 
*‘Will you please show me the rooms belonging to Mr. Allington 
and his daughters?" then added, as she saw the astonished look 
on the fair face of the little maid, “I have orders to arrange 
rooms for Mrs. Allington and Miss Grace." 

*‘Wal de Lo'd only knows who Miss Grace is," broke in 
Nan, who had just come from the kitchen and stood in the door 
with her sleeves rolled to her elbows, and great drops of per- 
spiration gathered on her brow. 

^*Mrs. Allington's daughter. Miss Wilton," replied Delia, 
sharply, and waiting for no reply she turned again to Clarice. 
*Are the young ladies at home? Perhaps they can show me 
about the rooms." 

“They hain't to home," snapped Nan as she hurried back to 
her work. 


36 


ROSELIN 


Delia watched the old woman as she left the room, then 
dropped wearily into a chair. 

^‘The young ladies not at home! When will they return?” 
she asked. 

“It will be more than a week before they come,” replied 
Clarice. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Allington are coming about the same time, 
and I have orders to arrange the rooms for them and to see 
that the others are in order. I suppose I must go on with 
the work; will you show me the rooms now, please?” 

“Very well,” said Clarice, “I will show you upstairs.” She 
led the way, Delia following in silence through the elegantly 
furnished suite of rooms belonging to the girls, then to Mr. 
Allington’s more plainly but tastefully furnished rooms. 

“This room was formerly occupied by Mrs. Allington’s maid, 
during her illness,” Clarice explained, opening the door and 
entering the bedroom which opened into Mr. Allington's 
sleeping-room. 

“The very room for Miss Grace,” said Delia, looking about 
the large room. “You know she must have a room near her 
mother’s, and I think Mr. Allington, too, would be pleased with 
this arrangement.” 

The next day she ordered the furniture removed and Mrs. 
Allington’s brought up. When the room was at last finished 
she surveyed it with pleasure. She was sure it would comply 
with the wishes of her mistress, and she could imagine Grace’s 
delight when she saw the room which was to be hers. 

The former Mrs. Allington’s private sitting-room had been 
left just as it was at the time of her death. It was a cozy little 
apartment and the children often visited here. When Delia 
entered the room the curtains were drawn low, and as a flood 
of light streamed in from the open door, she saw directly in 
front of her a portrait of Mrs. Allington. It was a beautiful 
painting, and for a moment the girl stood looking at the fair 
face. How lovely it was, with the deep blue eyes and waves 
of golden hair. 

“I think it would be much better to have some other room 
for the bride than the one which the former mistress oc- 
cupied,” she soliloquized. “This could be easily arranged for 


CHANGES AT ROSELIN 


37 


the music-room. The rooms are precisely alike and I think 
Mrs. Wilton — or Mrs. Allington, I should say — would like the 
change. I should think the family would like it better than to 
have a new mistress occupy the mother’s room. The girls will 
like their mother’s picture in their room. 

^‘Ned, bring the stepladder into this room,” she called. 

The boy obeyed and, placing the ladder before the painting, 
he mounted it, disengaged the cord from the hook, and care- 
fully handed it down to Delia, who carried it up to the girls’ 
room, while Ned followed with the ladder. Little did Delia 
know how much pain this little act would cause Wilma and 
Lillian; but the big blue eyes seemed to look down reproach- 
fully at her from the wall, as she left the room and hastened 
on to her work. 

“What’s de meanin’ of all dis commotion?” It was Nan’s 
voice that abruptly asked the question, and at the same moment 
her ebony face appeared at the door. “Dat pianner don’t need 
movin’, Miss Delia. I jist cleaned dis heah room, and der 
hain’t no need doin’ it ag’in.” 

“I have my orders, you know. The other room will be much 
better for the music-room, and this will be the bride’s,” re- 
plied Delia. “Do you see?” she added, as she left her to direct 
the moving of the furniture. 

“Here, John, this way a little — There, that looks better. 
Roll the piano here; how do you like that, Clarice? Yes, it is 
a fine place for a piano — I like it very much. No, no, Ned, put 
that cabinet here — in this corner near the piano. Hang that 
curtain a bit higher, Clarice; that’s better. Now bring the divan 
from the next room and put it here.” 

Nan looked on in amazement; then muttering to herself 
she rushed from the room. 

“I neber saw de like in all mah life. She’ll be puttin’ de 
kitchen in de parlor de next thing I knows. I guess if Miss 
Wilma wuz to home she’d show her how to boss. She’d not 
hab her a changin’ her muddah’s room fo’ nobody, eben if 
she did hab her o’ders — an’ I jist bet dat Wilton woman did 
gib her o’ders, too. She wouldn’t hab Mis’ Allington’s room 
jist as it wuz, dat she wouldn’t; an’ de Lo’d knows, I don’t 
care whethah she hab one at aH er not, on dis heah place. What 


38 


ROSELIN 


does dat man want anotha young ’en heah fo* Fd like to know. 
Wal, I don't know but Fll be glad when tomorrer’s over. Dey 
won’t come ’til late an’ I reckon all dis heah fuss and stir will 
be ovah ’fo’ den.” 

The next day dawned bright and fair. The servants has- 
tened here and there about their work. Flowers were arranged 
in the vases and all the rooms put in order. Just at sunset the 
carriage, drawn by the spirited blacks, came swiftly down the 
long avenue, shaded by stately pines, and drew up before the 
gate. The bridal party had arrived at last and Roselin lay 
before them in a bower of roses — roses everywhere — a cataract 
of them fell from the broad veranda. A profusion of roses, 
red, white and pink, mounted the ornate Corinthian columns, 
and hung in festoons over the stone balustrade. The sun, like 
a fiery ball surrounded by a mass of blue, was just sinking 
in the west; while the trees cast weird shadows over the lawn. 
The long, white walk looked like pearl as it wound over the 
emerald lawn. At the center, where it divided to form two, a 
little fountain murmered softly in the shadows, and falling over 
the marble statue, fell into the stone basin where several gold- 
fish were playing. 

“What a beautiful place,” said Mrs. Allington. “James, I do 
not wonder that you call it Roselin. A very appropriate name, 
indeed.” 

Ah! this was home. It reminded her of former days. Vale 
Cottage was dear to her, but the memory of the earlier home 
was far more dear. The tears came to her eyes, but resolutely 
forcing them back, she followed her husband up the walk 
with a stately tread, and no one knew of the emotion Evelyn 
Allington felt as she climbed the steps of the veranda and 
entered the long hall. They passed down the long line of 
servants assembled to receive them ; — the children were not 
there. Her arrival at Roselin was quite different from the 
picture she had mentally drawn. A vague fear swept over 
her. Why were they not there? Had they no welcome for 
their father and his wife and her child? Mr. Allington, too, 
felt his heart chilled. Not even Lilly to meet them! What 
did it mean? It was far worse than he had anticipated. What 
must Evelyn think? He dared not ask himself that question. 


CHANGES AT ROSELIN 


39 


‘^Where are my children?’^ he asked of his valet, at the 
first opportunity. 

‘'At Lakeview, sir.’’ 

“Lakeview! What do you mean? My children at Lake- 
view?” he asked in astonishment — a shadow clouding his brow. 

“Attending a house party there, sir — have been gone almost 
a fortnight. Expect them home ere long. Your brother left 
about the same time. A business call, I believe. Neither party 
know of your marriage, sir.” 

“They received my letter, did they not? I wrote them of 
my intended marriage some two weeks ago.” 

“I do not know, sir; if they did they said nothing about it. 
The first we knew of the marriage was your announcement and 
the arrival of the maid, sir,” replied the valet. 

“That will do, Phillip; I won’t need you again this evening.” 

Thus dismissed, Phillip strode from the room, and Mr. 
Allington sat quite still while heavy drops of perspiration 
moistened the cold white brow. He felt that his children had 
been wronged. Could it be possible that they knew nothing 
of the stepmother who had come into their home? Could it 
be that they had never received his letter, or had they pur- 
posely planned to be absent when the bridal party arrived? 
Lillian would never have consented to a plan like that. Her 
father knew that it was beneath her principle; but it was so 
like Wilma. There was a difficult question in Mr. Allington’s 
mind; he could not tell what course was best to take. Turn 
which way he would, he must face Wilma’s wrath and bear 
her insulting conduct toward his wife, and he looked forward 
to their return with mingled shame and fear. 

Grace had left her home in New Orleans at so early an 
age that she had not the faintest remembrance of the luxury 
in which she had lived, and now, as she viewed Roselin with 
wondering eyes filled with tears, she trembled with excitement, 
and there was a sensitive shrinking from the new and un- 
accustomed splendor which surrounded her on all sides. But 
when Delia took the little girl to her own room she gazed about 
her for a moment, then throwing her arms around the maid’s 
neck, kissed her tenderly, and smiling in spite of her tears said — 


40 


ROSELIN 


^'Oh, Delia! how kind of you to fix my room so much like 
home. You know exactly what I like.” 

Every article was familiar to her. It seemed that she 
had entered her own home in a foreign land. Her own little 
bed with its snow white curtains stood opposite the big window 
draped with her mother’s rich damask curtains and her rich 
velvet rugs covered the polished floor, and throwing herself 
into the depths of the sofa she looked up and saw her father’s 
painting hanging on the wall just as it had done in her mother’s 
little parlor in the south. 


A LETTER FROM HOME 


41 


CHAPTER VII 

A LETTER FROM HOME 

'A Letter^ Miss.” 

The servant handed Wilma a letter with the words ‘Tn 
Haste” written in a large hand across one end of the envelope. 
It was the last day but one of their stay at Lakeview, and 
Louis and Wilma had wandered through the park and were 
sitting on a moss covered log in a shady nook near the lake 
when the servant found them. 

"‘Pardon me, Louis; I have a letter from papa.” 

Wilma looked up at the young man by her side, who smiled 
and kindly nodded his consent. Tearing open the envelope 
she hastily read the contents. Louis watched her closely as 
she read. At first her face was scarlet and her eyes flashed, 
then she suddenly grew pale. 

“I must find Lillian and Willard; they will want to read 
my letter,” she said, making a great effort to conceal her 
chagrin. 

“You have bad news, I fear,” said her companion. 

“Well, no, only papa is home and anxious that we shall 
come,” she replied in an unconcerned tone, arising to go. 

“Oh I if that is all, we need not hurry. Remember we 
leave tomorrow; this is probably the last stroll together; so 
let us make it as long and pleasant as possible. Willard is 
enjoying this last afternoon with Marie, and I dare say he 
would not like to be bothered with a letter. 

“Perhaps not, but he must be bothered just the same. We 
must go now.” 

She spoke firmly, and they started up the path, walking 
with more haste than usual. What could it be in that letter 
that had so affected her? Louis could not guess. It was 
something more than the mere fact of her father's return, he 
was sure; but he did not question her. She did not seem 
inclined to talk and they walked on in silence. Just as they 
reached the paved drive Lillian came cantering up on the bay. 


42 


ROSELIN 


*‘My last ride on Lilly,” she said gayly, drawing up before 
them. 

‘'You have certainly enjoyed it,” said Louis. “This is a 
lovely day for riding.” 

“I should say we have enjoyed it; haven’t we, Lilly?” She 
patted the horse’s neck and smoothed the glossy coat. 

“We were just looking for you, Lillian. I have a letter 
from papa. Come up to our room and we will read it together.” 
Wilma spoke hurriedly. 

“Oh, good! Is he home?” 

“Yes.” 

“All right, I will be there:” and shaking the rein she dashed 
on. 

She was waiting in the hall when Louis and Wilma reached 
the house. She was wearing a dark blue riding habit, and a 
jaunty little hat still crowned the mass of golden hair. 

When the two girls reached their room Wilma turned the 
key in the door, for she would not be interrupted, then turn- 
ing to Lillian she silently placed the letter in her hand. 

“Why, what is the matter?” asked Lillian. She noted the 
pallor of her sister’s face and the slight tremor in her voice. 
“What has happened, Wilma? Do tell me.” 

“Papa is married and at home with his wife, Lillian,” 
Wilma replied. 

“Oh! it can’t be! He told us he was not to be married 
while he was gone. Oh! Wilma, it can’t be true!” Lillian 
buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. 

“He told us what he did not mean, Lilly, for he writes 
that they are there — he and his wife. Ah ! Lillian, he has de- 
ceived us — ^wilfully deceived us !” Wilma’s voice trembled with 
anger, and taking up the letter she read it through aloud. 

Lillian still sat with her face in her hands and as her 
sister finished she sobbed: “What shall we do?” 

“Go home as papa wishes us to, I suppose. I don’t believe 
he ever wrote us that first letter ! He has certainly forgotten, 
for it was not received.” 

“Does Willard know of this? Perhaps he has received that 
letter.” 


A LETTER FROM HOME 


43 


*‘No I have not seen him but I dare say he knows nothing 
of itT 

“No, I know he would have told us; but, Wilma, it may 
not be so bad after all, for papa didn^t mean to deceive us. 
But how I dread to go home.” 

“I, too, dread to go, but yet, I long to tell them what I 
think of them. Papa did mean to deceive us ! Lillian, you 
know full well he did, or why did he do this thing. 'Tis bad 
enough to marry at all !” 

“Wilma, you must not tell them all you think,” cried Lillian, 
drawing near her sister; “that would never do. It cannot be 
helped; it would only make matters worse! Wilma, sit down; 
you frighten me.” Lillian laid a trembling hand on her sister’s 
shoulder. “Don’t look so. What will Mrs. Carrelton think 
when you go down to dinner?” 

“Don’t talk about my looks, Lilly. Look at yourself ; you 
look like a little ghost. Go down and give this to Willard; 
I must rest awhile, for I can’t go down now.” Wilma glanced 
in the long mirror as she spoke and saw reflected there a pale 
face, with dark, flashing eyes. 

Lillian took the letter, and started in search of her brother, 
while Wilma, after rubbing her cheeks with cologne, threw 
herself upon the bed. 

Willard had returned from a row on the lake, with Marie, 
and was reading in the library when Lillian handed him the letter, 
then seated herself on the stool at his feet. 

“Well, a pretty mess he’s made of it now, hasn’t he? I 
declare what’s going to happen next?” he said, as he finished 
the letter. “Never mind, little sister, we’ll find what’s to pay, 
tomorrow when we get home,” he added, as the tears again 
rolled down Lillian’s cheek. For awhile they sat in silence, 
then, as they heard the sound of footsteps in the hall, Lillian 
hastily dried her eyes and fled up the stairs. 

“All alone are you, Willard, enjoying the solitude of the 
library with a book as your only companion,” said Mrs. Carrel- 
ton, laying her white, jeweled hand on his shoulder. “We will 
be quite lonely when our guests leave us; if we could only keep 
you and your sisters awhile longer. I can’t see the need of 
your going back to Roselin so soon. Although our party is at 


44 


ROSELIN 


an end, Marie and I shall be delighted to extend our invita- 
tion for another week in your honor.” 

'Thank you, Mrs. Carrelton ; I should be very glad to accept 
your kind invitation, and I think I can answer the same for 
my sisters, but papa is at home now and anxious that we should 
come.” 

“Oh! I did not know of his return and, although we are 
disappointed, I cannot urge you further.” 

She noted the drawn look about the compressed lips, and 
thought, “Ah! what a splendid match that will be. I do not 
wonder at that sad expression. He loves Marie, and tomorrow 
noon they part. Well do I remember how my heart ached 
years ago, when I was a girl like Marie, when Donald said 
‘good-bye’ to me, and that these young lovers feel the same 
I do not doubt.” 

“Remember this, Willard, come to Lakeview any time you 
feel so disposed and you will always be welcome,” she said 
aloud. 

“You are very kind, Mrs. Carrelton. Thank you.” 

^ ^ ^ 

When the train left the little Greenfield station the follow- 
ing afternoon, leaving only a cloud of smoke behind, it carried 
among its passengers several of Mrs. Carrelton’s guests. 

It was with a feeling of regret that they crossed the wind- 
ing river, and saw before them the little town of Ashville. 

As Louis Mandel assisted Wilma to the platform, he held 
the little gloved hand tightly in his: “Now that we are ac- 
quainted, I hope we may meet frequently,” he said; and hastily 
bidding “good-bye” to Willard and Lillian, he sprang upon the 
steps of the moving train. 


THE MEETING 


45 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE MEETING 

They drew up before the little office in the village and Mr. 
Allington entered the carriage, greeting his children with as 
much affection as usual, and, as the carriage whirled on down 
the street, he told them of his marriage, of his disappointment 
when he returned home, and of Evelyn’s sorrow at finding 
them gone; then very cautiously he mentioned Grace. They 
had listened to his explanation in silence, but now Wilma was 
white with rage. 

“Papa, how dared you deceive us as you have? When you 
told us of your intended marriage, you did not even mention her 
name ! You have purposely deceived us, and I dare say, you will 
be sorry of your bargain before the year is passed, but you 
may know it is your fault, not mine, nor anyone’s, but yours, 
and yours alone. My home shall never be a happy one for 
that girl! She will soon find that she is not wanted there. 
’Tis bad enough to marry at all without marrying a whole 
family. Oh! that I had died with my mother,” she said in 
a bitter voice. 

Mr. Allington turned away in silence. 

Willard looked reproachfully at her. “Ah, Wilma,” he said, 
“you say too much. I am sorry, very sorry that things are as 
they are, but it is irretrievable now, and we must accept it, 
come what may. Do be considerate, Wilma, and judge not until 
you see the ones you fancy you shall despise. They may not 
be the detestable intruders you imagine them to be.” 

“Considerate, nonsense!” she replied with a sneer, as she 
stepped haughtily from the carriage and hastened up the 
walk, and on to her room, followed by her sister. She opened 
the door and hastily crossed the room, throwing back from the 
window the heavy curtains that shaded it. Lillian’s cry of “Oh, 
Wilma!” caused her to turn suddenly. Lillian stood in the 


46 


ROSELIN 


center of the room with her eyes riveted on the wall. Follow- 
ing her glance, Wilma’s eyes met those of her mother. 

“Oh! Lilly, how can we bear this?” she said, turning to her 
sister, her white face showing plainly the agony it caused. 
“Mamma’s picture carried from her sitting-room, where it has 
hung every day since I can remember. How dared Mrs. Evelyn 
move it? The last thing on earth she should have touched 
is mamma’s little sitting-room! It was just as she had left it, 
and now that her own dear picture must be taken from 
that room, where the other family paintings still hang, it is 
more than I can bear,” continued Wilma, in a bitter voice, 
while tears rolled down the cheeks of both girls. 

* * 3 |« * 

Mrs. Allington waited, what seemed to her like hours. She 
had dressed earlier than was necessary and gone to the draw- 
ing-room, where she and Grace were to meet the heirs of 
Roselin. She wore a gown of black satin which hung in 
heavy folds and trailed gracefully over the velvet carpet as she 
passed softly up and down the room, her white hands clasped 
nervously together. 

She turned hastily toward the door as she heard Grace’s 
tripping step in the hall, and the little girl was soon clasped 
in her mother’s arms. 

“My dear little darling,” she exclaimed, “I hope you will 
like your new sisters and brother, dearie. How I wish it were 
your own dear brother. How we would have loved him, had 
he only been spared; but we must try to love Wilma and 
Lillian and their brother, Gracie darling.” 

“Yes, I’ll try — and I hope they will be nice to me, mamma; 
but I’m afraid they won’t.” Grace pressed closer to her mother 
and looked up into her anxious face. 

Mrs. Allington felt sure that they would be welcome. Her 
husband had told her as much, and yet she waited nervously. 
The girls had luncheon in their room with their brother, and 
Mrs. Allington was momentarily expecting their arrival in the 
drawing-room. She had heard from Delia of the proud and 
beautiful Wilma, of whom the old servants talked, and she 
wondered if she could ever win her. Mr. Allington’s face had 
looked sad and troubled when she saw him at luncheon an hour 


THE MEETING 


47 


since, and it was evident that he dreaded the meeting between 
his children and his bride. Mrs. Allington held her treasure 
close. To dislike Grace, she felt, would be impossible. Every- 
one loved her delicate little daughter with her long, dark curls 
and sweet smiles. Even the proud Wilma must love her in 
time. 

Neither Grace nor her mother heard the gentle tap at the 
door nor the soft footsteps as a slender white figure entered 
the room. The lights were shaded and cast a mellow glow 
over the room, and its two occupants. Lillian stood for a mo- 
ment in silence, then said softly, as she advanced toward Mrs. 
Allington, with one slender hand outstretched : 

‘‘Pardon me; I am Lillian.” 

Grace slipped from her mother's lap and Mrs. Allington rose 
to meet Lillian. She took the cold little hand in one of her 
own while the other slipped around the young girl’s waist and 
drew her close. “So this is our dear little Lilly,” she said, 
kissing the pale cheek. “Grace this is Lillian, about whom Mr. 
Allington has been telling you.” She stood with an arm around 
each girl. “I know you girls will be excellent friends,” she 
said, “and I sincerely hope, Lillian, that you will learn to love, 
not only Grace, but her mother, also.” 

Lillian sank wearily into the chair Mrs. Allington brought 
for her. “I know you must be tired after your ride,” she said 
in a motherly voice, drawing the chair near her own. 

Lillian smiled faintly. “Yes, I am tired, but I am very glad 
to get home again.” 

In a few moments Mr. Allington entered the room followed 
by Willard and Wilma. Wilma had looked everywhere for 
the missing Lillian. 

Lillian had sat for awhile watching her sister completing her 
toilet and heard her declaring that she would astonish the 
simple girl downstairs with her elegant dress. She had listened 
to the little clock as it slowly ticked the seconds. How could 
she wait longer? She would rather meet her stepmother 
alone, with no criticising sister to watch her movements; no 
teasing brother, or anxious father to correct her. She could 
follow the dictation of her own soul. She would go alone; 
she would wait no longer. Silently leaving the room, she had 


48 


ROSELIN 


crept softly down the stairs. Her white dress was very simple 
but she looked like some small, wandering fairy as she passed 
down the long dimly lighted hall. Wilma would have been 
astonished had she seen her sister then, but she did not, and 
when she turned from the long mirror, Lillian was gone, but 
where, she did not know. 

Mr. Allington led the way to the drawing-room in silence, 
and in a few simple words introduced his children. Wilma 
came a few steps into the room, then halted, head high, eyes 
wide, breath fast. Her wish to astonish the ‘‘simple girl down- 
stairs’’ was fulfilled as she stood before her — this beautiful girl 
surrounded by a cloud of pink. 

She barely touched the hand Mrs. Allington offered, and 
with a haughty inclination of the head, she swept past Grace 
and on to Lillian’s side. 

“Lillian Allington, why did you come here alone without 
papa’s permission?” she said in a low voice which trembled in 
spite of her effort to control it. 


SHADOWS 


49 


CHAPTER IX 

SHADOWS 

^Where> are you going, Lillian?” 

“Over to Genevieve's, to give her the book I told her she 
might read, and neglected to give to her.” 

Lillian selected several books from the long rows before 
her. Taking them in one hand and swinging her hat in the 
other, she started down the lane. It was the morning after her 
return, and she was more anxious to see her friend than she 
was willing to acknowledge to her sister. She enjoyed walk- 
ing down the shady lane in the fresh morning air. She and 
Genevieve often watched the first beams of the sun as it kindled 
diamonds on every dew-beaded leaf, and silvered every fringy 
fern. 

As she swung back the little wooden gate on its rusty hinges, 
she heard a cry of delight from the path leading to the spring, 
and hastily turning about, she saw Genevieve hurrying toward 
her, a tin pail swinging in her hand. 

“You can’t imagine how glad I am to see you,” she ex- 
claimed, dropping her pail, throwing her arms about Lillian, 
and placing a warm, affectionate kiss on each delicate pink 
cheek. “I began to think you were never coming home. How 
nice of you, Lilly, to come to see me so soon after your re- 
turn.” 

“Yes. But I’m sure you will pardon my early call when I 
tell you I was just dying to see you. I positively could not 
wait another minute,” Lillian replied, returning Gevenieve’s 
caresses. “Here is the book I promised you, and two others 
I think you will enjoy reading; I will leave them here on the 
step until we return;” and taking up the fallen pail, she started 
with Genevieve toward the spring. 

For awhile they sat upon the mossy bank, watching the 
cold water, clear as crystal, bubbling up and murmuring softly 
as it flowed over the smooth, silvery pebbles, falling over the 


4 


50 


ROSELIN 


larger stones in small cataracts, and winding its rippling way 
among the waving grass. Then filling their shining pail, they 
started slowly up the hill toward the farm house. 

“Oh, if you could have been with us, what lovely times you 
and I would have had wandering about the park and that won- 
derful garden,” Lillian said, as she finished a glowing descrip- 
tion of Lakeview. 

The pail, by this time only half full, was safely deposited 
on the small table, and the girls stood laughing over dripping 
skirts and wet slippers, when Bob entered with the milk. 

“Why hello, Lillian!” he exclaimed, as his merry whistle 
ceased and he entered the kitchen. “Oh you careless girls ! — 
couldn’t carry a bucket of water without spilling over half 

of it,” he laughed. “What will your ,” a pause, “your sister 

say,” he finished. He dared not say mother. 

Wilma sat dreamily for a while after Lillian left her. She 
was alone in the library. A book lay unnoticed in her lap, 
while her thoughts were wandering among the memories of 
the past — all so bright and happy that it made the once more 
brilliantly painted future seem dark and shadowed, and it sank 
back into the dim outlines of a sadly faded sketch — one from 
which she shrank. Suddenly she started from her reverie. 

“This will never do,” she said, half aloud, with emphasis. 
“I cannot sit down, and ponder and pine. I will not! — I will 
not! I must show her that I care little for her presence — 
that she can’t interfere with my plans, nor anything that con- 
cerns me. She may crush Willard and Lillian, and rule them, 
but she shall never crush me ! No never !” she said resolute- 
ly. “I shall hold for my rights and theirs.” 

She arose with a sigh, opened the door and went down 
the hall until she came to the door of the music-room, which 
she found closed. “Why are the doors closed ? They have 
always stood open. But of course a new mistress rules here,” 
she thought. Then a sudden determination to dispel the sur- 
rounding gloom took possession of her. Playing always 
quieted Wilma when in one of her bad moods, but for a 
moment her hand rested motionless upon th6 knob. Some- 
thing within her seemed to whisper, “Don’t! Don’t turn it!” 
But without glancing at the open doors behind her, the cool 


SHADOWS 


51 


inviting room, and the open piano, with pearly keys waiting 
for her nimble fingers to call forth from them the sweet, 
mellow tones her heart longed for, her white fingers moved 
on the knob and the doors before her were thrown open. 

Ah! could it be possible, or was she only dreaming? She 
stood like a marble statue, with hands clasped and lips pressed 
firmly together, while her stepmother came softly toward her, 
as if to take her hand; the sweet voice murmuring softly: 
“Oh ! it’s Wilma. Fm glad you came, dear. Come on in ; I 
shall be very glad to have you with me, here. It is such a lovely 
morning.” But she was cut short in her words of welcome, 
by the burst of wrath from Wilma’s white lips. 

Mrs. Allington was never more surprised than when she 
stood facing the angry glare of those black eyes, and listening 
to the torrent of wild, meaningless words that seemed to 
gather all her hopes and sweep them away, while she stood 
silent, motionless, with pain and astonishment written on her 
face. At last she managed to gasp : “Oh, child ! What can 
you mean?” 

“Mean I” repeated Wilma, scornfully. “You know what I 
mean; there’s no use asking that absurd question. You need 
not act so innocent ; how can you, with your conscience prick- 
ing you, as I know it must?” 

“My conscience I” 

“Aye ! your conscience — if you have any,” was the reply ; 
and Wilma came a step forward. 

This was more than Mrs. Allington could bear. Could this 
be the girl she had hoped to win and love — this wild, gestic- 
ulating figure standing before her? Wilma tossed her head 
with a haughty air, and the little white rose, nestling in the 
black coils, wafted its sweet perfume, all unnoticed; while 
her hands grasped the folds of her pink dress. She paused, 
for a moment; Mrs. Allington looked steadfastly at her, then 
sank into a chair with the tears moistening the pale cheeks. 

Wilma turned, and was leaving the room, when a hand 
clutched her arm and a voice, quite unlike the sweet tones she 
had heard only a short time since, said: “Wilma, I demand of 
you, explain yourself ; tell me what you mean by coming to my 
room and insulting me as you have.” For a moment Wilma 


52 


ROSELIN 


hesitated; the hand on her arm tightened its grasp. ‘Tell me/’ 
repeated Mrs. Allington. 

“I have nothing to explain/’ and shaking off the hand, she 
fled from the room, leaving her stepmother bewildered. 

* * * 

The sun shone brightly over the green, velvety slopes where 
the yellow buttercups tossed their golden heads and modest 
little daisies quivered in the morning breeze. The lake danced 
and sparkled as the fiery ball peeped over the neighboring 
trees and smiled at the bright surface, which its rays flooded 
with sunlight. Across the narrow meadow path that led through 
the wood to the farmhouse shadow and sunshine were playing 
hide-and-seek, while a frisking little squirrel ran across the 
path, scampered up a tree, and sprang from one swaying branch 
to another. 

The exercise had brought a bright glow to Lillian’s cheeks 
and she came tripping along the path, with her hat suspended 
by the ribbon streamers and falling back upon her shoulders. 
Her thoughts were far remote from the changes at home and 
she was humming a quiet little air as she neared the lake 
and stopped to look at Willard’s new canoe, which was lying 
near the path not far from the water’s edge. She suddenly 
raised her head and looked about her. What was that sound 
she heard? It sounded like a soft tread behind her and she 
turned expecting to see some one near. There was no one to 
be seen, and after glancing up and down the lake shore, she 
again bent over the canoe but started as the sound of a mourn- 
ing sob fell upon her ears. Again and again she heard it. 
It came from the woods behind her, yet she stood, still look- 
ing out across the lake. Whom could it be? “Some one in pain 
and distress,” she thought. 

Slowly and softly she turned and drew a step nearer the 
trees, half wishing she had returned by the lane, but there 
was some one in distress and she must help them. As she 
turned to one side, she caught a glimpse of a dark figure, and 
for a moment she stood breathless. Before her, Mrs. Alling- 
ton sat on the mossy trunk of a fallen tree. A white, filmy 
scarf was thrown across her shoulders; her head rested on 
her hands and moans of anguish shook her slight frame. She 


SHADOWS 


53 


raised her head as Lillian approached, and it was a white, 
tear-stained face that Lillian looked upon while half the color 
faded from her own. 

“What has happened?’’ she asked, in an excited tone, but 
Mrs. Allington turned from her. 

“Do not ask me; I cannot tell,” was the sobbing reply. 

Lillian stood looking pityingly at the bowed figure near 
her. What could she say; what could she do? Her step- 
mother’s reply was final and she could not ask her again the 
cause of her grief. 

“Won’t you come to the house with me, now?” she at last 
ventured. 

“No, I’ll come soon.” 

Lillian turned from the woods back to the meadow path, 
but all was changed now. The glory of the day had faded; 
all the happiness and the sunshine had vanished. Why had 
the shadows fallen so soon, so soon? 

She hurried from one room to another in search of Wilma, 
for she felt sure she could explain the mystery. The sitting- 
room, library and parlors were visited but they were all 
silent. She was on her way down the hall when the sound 
of Wilma’s voice in the room above startled her, and for a 
moment she leaned against the polished colonnade as her sister’s 
sneering tones reached her; then softly she climbed the stairs. 

“Your mother didn’t need to rush things so; she has taken 
entirely too many privileges here. Of course you are welcome 
to store your plunder in this room; and claim it if you like; 
but you should have asked for my opinion before arranging 
it. I could change all your mother’s plans for your future if 
I wished, for remember this, I am an heir of Roselin, while 
you — you have not a penny, save that little Southern Cottage, 
Vale, of which you boast.” Wilma’s lips curled, and the dark 
eyes were now flashing upon the child, instead of the step- 
mother. 

What privileges? Grace could not think. Wilma must have 
meant the arrangement of her own little room, the only one 
at Roselin which seemed like home, and she knew that it had 
been arranged by Delia before their arrival. She shrank back 
into the depths of her mother’s divan and glanced about the 


54 


ROSELIN 


room; her dark eyes were very bright, but there was a hurt 
look upon the thin, sallow face, and the pretty mouth trembled. 
The eyes again rested upon Wilma as she stood with one hand 
resting on the back of a chair, richly upholstered, which ^e 
designated as ‘'plunder.’’ 

‘T told you once. Miss Wilma, that mamma did not do it. 
She hasn’t moved a thing since we came. It is just as we 
found it, believe me or not as you will.” The voice was very 
low, and Lillian, who now stood in the upper hall, failed to 
catch the words. 

With an impatient gesture Wilma exclaimed: “Oh, you are 
like most other children, I see; you’re posted;” and as she 
heard Lillian’s footsteps she turned and faced her. 

“Come, Wilma,” she whispered, “I want to see you.” 

“See me? For what?” was the sharp reply. 

Lillian did not answer, but taking her sister’s hand, led 
her from the room, while Grace, glad to be left alone, buried 
her face in the pillows and wept long and silently, until Lil- 
lian’s hand caressed the dark curls, and Lillian’s voice whis- 
pered : “Don’t cry, Grace, I want to talk with you.” 

Lillian had heard the story from beginning to finish and 
believed it; how could she think otherwise? All evidence was 
against the stepmother; the rooms had been changed, pictures 
and furniture moved ; and who, other than Mrs. Allington, 
would have done it ; yet that dark, bowed, weeping figure 
seemed to Lillian the picture of wronged innocence. At least 
she could not let Grace suffer, and while Wilma was still in 
her room, Lillian stole in to comfort her. 

After awhile Grace raised her hot, tear-stained face from 
out the cushions and looked steadily at her companion, who 
was seated on a low stool near her, and, with a sudden im- 
pulse, Lillian pressed the little hand in hers and exclaimed : 
“You’ll try to like me, won’t you, Grace?” 

“I like you now,” was the reply. 

The ice was broken and Wilma, as she passed the door 
some time later, was shocked and disgusted to hear her sister’s 
voice mingled with the tones of “that lying little pauper.” 


AFTER THREE WEEKS AT ROSELIN 


55 


CHAPTER X 

AFTER THREE WEEKS AT ROSELIN 

“Wa'al, how do ye like ye’r new neighbor, Misses Layton?” 

Mrs. Haley raised her eyes from her sewing and leaned 
back in her chair as she asked the question, while the corners 
of her mouth (which was unusually large) quirked up into 
what was intended for a smile. 

“New neighbor? Oh, you mean Mrs. Allington, I suppose. 
I know very little of her, Mrs. Haley; I have called but once. 
I liked her very much then, and Genevieve likes the little girl, 
too.” 

“Called only onct? My! but yeV neighborly,” continued 
the prying old woman, rocking back and forth, and gazing about 
Mrs. Layton’s little sitting-room. “I just dropped in a minit 
as I come past an’ I guess they warn’t lookin’ fer company, 
fur that oldest girl wuz jist goin’ it about somethin’ Missis 
Allington had said er done. Fll tell ye, if she keeps ahead uv 
that Wilma she’ll have to git to goin’ some, I ’low. Step- 
mothers can usually settle the children though, and it’s to be 
hoped she’ll git settled; an’ that little Lilly looks like she wuz 
already settled; but land sakes ! Mrs. Allington wuz awful 
kind to her while I wuz there; but then I reckon ye can’t 
judge by outer’d appearances, fur no tellin’ how mean she can 
be when her dad’s back is turned, an’ all her friends out of 
sight. Of course that girl uv hers will have the advantage 
in everything, an’ its only natural that her mother’d want it 
that-a-way. I allers did think Mister Allington wuz a lackin’ 
somewhere and now he’s showed it. I hear Lilly is quite 
chummy with her young’en ; but I’m afraid that won’t last 
long. Two families of children can never git along after they 
onct git acquainted. I hearn that the boy and girl are goin’ 
off to school a year from this cornin’ winter, an’ I ’low Mrs. 
Allington’ll be glad to git rid of that boy, too. An’ I can’t 
say I blame her fur that, either.” 


56 


ROSELIN 


“Willard, I think, is a very good boy, and I don’t think 
Wilma is as bad as you think,” Mrs. Layton began as her 
visitor at last stopped for breath. “I have no fault to find 
with any of the family. Lillian and Grace are both such dear 
little girls. Genevieve spends much of her spare time with 
them. But the dear child has so little time for pleasure,” she 
added, accompanying her visitor to the door; then with a feel- 
ing of relief she turned back to her work. 

Mrs. Layton was a neat, refined woman, and although her 
house was small, it was a model for cleanliness. She had 
at one time seen better days, but since her children were 
quite small she had known nothing but work from morn till 
night. She was ambitious and would rather work the re- 
mainder of her life than to see her children shabbily dressed, 
as were many in the neighborhood. Genevieve was a great 
help to her mother and for hours, after her work at the 
store was done, she would care for and entertain her invalid 
grandmother, who sat day after day and week after week in 
her big armchair, wholly dependent upon her daughter for 
support. Although poor and troubled, Mrs. Layton had never 
given up, and now that her children were almost grown, was 
looking forward to better times. She had a strong intellect, 
and never for a moment had she lost that sweet, refined, lady- 
like way, which won the love and respect of all who met her. 
The first Mrs. Allington had proven an invaluable friend to 
her, and she hoped she should like the second Mrs. Allington. 
She would not say a word against the haughty Wilma, who 
had never, since a little girl (when with her mother she had 
visited at the cottage) stepped across the threshhold. And 
while Mrs. Haley was peddling the news from house to house, 
Mrs. Layton was busy with her sewing, while in her heart 
she was finding excuses for the wrathful Wilma, as well as 
the stepmother, at whom her caller had thrown such broad 
insinuations. 

The reader knows, no doubt, how false those insinuations 
were. Mrs. Allington was the same when the father’s “back 
was turned and all the neighbors out of sight,” as when their 
fault-finding eyes were upon her, or her husband present. Since 
that first night, when Lillian had gone alone to the library. 


AFTER THREE WEEKS AT ROSELIN 


57 


she had liked her — even loved her — and although Lillian stood 
firmly by her sister, she knew she was not hated by her as 
she was by Wilma. When alone with Lillian she practically 
forgot her troubles, for the icy wall which stood between 
them when Wilma was present melted and Lillian for the 
time forgot the wrong Mrs. Allington had done them and the 
shadow she had cast over their home. 

Wilma always stood aloof and never did she see her step- 
mother, but her brow clouded and her lip curled. Very few 
words had been exchanged between them since that first morn- 
ing when the storm had burst. Wilma never for a moment 
doubted her stepmother's guilt, and when the latter, hearing 
from Grace that it was only the arranging of her room that 
had caused Wilma’s wrath, went to her trying to explain 
that it had been arranged by the servants before her arrival, 
and that Grace had told her the truth when she said her 
mother had not changed anything, she flew into a violent rage. 
“Who said anything about her room?” she demanded, with 
sharp emphasis on the word ‘her.’ “I have not, and I’ll assure 
you, she is perfectly welcome to it if she only remains there,” 
she snapped, and left the room. Neither had referred to the 
matter since, and Mr. Allington knew nothing of it. Appar- 
ently he did not notice the change of the two rooms and the 
disappearance of his wife’s picture, for not a word on the 
subject passed his lips. In fact, he did not know who did it, 
and thinking perhaps it was one of Wilma’s whims, he thought 
very little about the matter, and when, on seeing the mother’s 
picture in the girls’ room, hung in full view of the door, he 
was satisfied. Neither the wife nor the daughters mentioned 
the clouds which were left from that first storm. His wife did 
not care to bother him with what seemed to her now a trivial 
matter; while Wilma imagined herself capable of managing her 
own affairs — of which her stepmother was her greatest trouble 
— without the assistance of her father; and, advising Lillian to 
keep it to herself, she retained her frigid coldness toward both 
her stepmother and Grace. 

Lillian was very kind to Grace, for with her loving nature 
she could not well slight the delicate little girl, who had begun 
to wear a sad, lonesome look. More than once she had ac- 


58 


ROSELIN 


companied Lillian in her walk to the cottage, and Genevieve 
was fast learning to love her, and half envied Lillian her pale, 
but pretty little stepsister. 

One day as Wilma lay in the hammock which hung just be- 
neath the dining-room window, her attention was attracted by 
the voices of the servants inside the open window. 

‘‘Say, yo’ Clarice, hab yo’ eber hea’ ob Miss Wilma’s eber 
makin’ a fuss ober dem rooms dat wuz changed fo’ah Miss 
Wilton cum heah as Mis’ Allington?” 

It was Nan’s voice, and Wilma raised to a sitting position 
that she might not lose a word that followed and yet could not 
be seen, while Clarice stopped short in arranging the flowers 
in the cut glass vase, which she was preparing for the “young 
ladies” room, and replied : 

“Why no, I haven’t heard anything of it ! Did they have 

trouble over that? Do tell me. Nan, quick; you know I’m 

just dying with curiosity.” 

“Wal, law chil’, yo’ know I hain’t hearn a word now or I’d 
a tol’ yo long foah dis time; but I jes ’lowed thar wud be 
trouble when Mis Wilma come home an’ foun’ dat air music- 
room of hern all tor’ up, an’ a stepmother’s settin-room 
‘ranged in thar, an’ her mudder’s picture packed off up in 
thar room; I jis’ ‘lowed thar’d be some thunder-bolts and 
lightenin’ a flyin’ ’round heah, but I hain’t seed nothin’ but 
jis’ ice-bergs fo’ mor’n dese three weeks, an’ I ’low July 

weatha hain’t de best weatha fo’ ’em eithe’; I know’d Lilly — de 

little lam’ — wouldn’ say nothin’, but law, I didn’t think Wilma 
could hold her temper dis heah long and I’ll tel yo’, Clarice, if 
dey had a come to dis heah niggah to a ‘splained anythin’ ’bout 
it in de fust place. I’d a shore a held up fo’ Mis’ Wilma, fo’ I 
didn’ know Miss Allington den, yo’ know. Most of dem 
suthen ladies is stuck up, good-fur-nothin’ things ; but I hearn 
Miss Grace tellin’ Ruby dat her mutha wuz raised in de no’th. 
I ’low’d when she fust cum heah dat she wuz as bad as Mis’ 
Wilma or wus, but de Lo’d knows. I’ve changed my mind a 
pow’ful lot since den.” 

The face beneath the window assumed an expression of 
hatred and a clenched fist was shaken threateningly at the 
open window as if it were the offender. But alas ! the ex- 


AFTER THREE WEEKS AT ROSELIN 


59 


pression of scorn and hatred changed into one of puzzled as- 
tonishment, as, after a pause. Nan’s voice again floated out on 
the breeze. 

“When Delia had eberythin’ in a stir ’round heah foah dey 
cum frum de weddin’, I jis’ ’lowed dat she did hab her o’ders, 
when she wuz bossin’ us ’round an’ sayin’ ‘I hab my o’ders 
yo’ know’, to ebery blessed thing we said to her; but she’s sech 
a smart, big-feelin’ gal dat I jis’ doubt it mightily and reckon 
she was jis’ a tryin’ to show off, an’ I wonder if she ebber tol’ 
her mistress how bossy she wuz an’ how she changed dem 
rooms ’ginst all uv us. I’d jis’ like to see her set off de place, 
but I reckon as long as she stays out ob de kitchen it’s none 
ob dis heah nigga’s business and as Clarice left the room, 
with a low reply, which Wilma did not hear. Nan’s voice burst 
out into one of her favorite songs : 

“Way down in sunny Alabam, 

Land of watermelon, cane and ham. 

Law, dem niggers how they shake their feet. 

When they hear somebody holler possum sweet. 

Basted all around with candy, yam, yam, yam, yam, 

’Way down in sunny Alabam 

All dem coons are happy as a clam 

They wrote the answer to the word called shirk. 

They don’t want anything that looks like work, 

’Way down in Alabam 

while the occupant of the hammock sank back among the pillows. 

From what Nan had said she gathered that her stepmother 
had not arranged the rooms and possibly knew nothing about 
them. Could it be that she was really innocent and knew not 
of what Wilma had accused her? “It must be so,” she muttered 
to herself, and for a moment her better nature arose within her 
and she felt ashamed of her conduct toward her stepmother. “If 

she really is innocent ” she whispered to that better nature; 

then resolutely crushing it and beating her little French slipper 
against the stone walk she thought : “I’ll never tell it ! never ! 
Lillian is such a foolish little goose; she’s even good to that 
girl, now, and I wonder what she wouldn’t be if she had heard 
what I have. I had a hard enough time to make her believe 


60 


ROSELIN 


it, and then to keep her from explaining what she knew, to 
either Grace or her mother; but now, that the web of distrust 
is spun — and with innocency on my part — I shall not trouble 
myself to break it nor explain it to anyone. Eh !” and she 
shivered, “I can picture Lillian going to her and asking pardon 
for even thinking wrongly of her.’’ She laughed a sneering 
little laugh; then as she thought of the way the old servant 
had expressed her feelings toward herself the words “The 
*wretch” were audibly hissed between two rows of teeth. 

Half an hour later she met Clarice in the hall. “Clarice,” 
she began, as the girl was about to pass on, “tell Nan that it is 
the wish of her mistress that she shall ’tend to her own affairs 
and hold her tongue concerning the affairs of the family. Tell 
her those words and nothing more. Do you hear?” she de- 
manded. 

“Yes, Miss, I’ll tell her that and no more,” returned the 
obedient maid ; and going immediately to the kitchen she began : 
“Say, Nan — ” 

“Dis am me,” returned the old woman. 

“Well,” continued the girl, “I have a strict order for you.” 

“Yo’ don’t say;” and Nan suspended her duster while Clarice 
repeated the message entrusted to her care. She had been told 
to say nothing more and she knew full well what that meant, 
so she did not say that it was Wilma who had given her the 
order, or the ever-suspecting Nan might have “’spicioned some- 
thin’, ” as was her usual expression, but now she burst out. 
“De snoopin’, pryin’ critter, I reckon she’s to blame wif de whole 
lot after all, er she wouldn’t be so skeered of my tongue; 
an’ I’se heah long foah she wuz, an’ I’d jis’ like to see her keep 
dis ol’ woman still when she. wants to talk, I would.” 

Clarice did not dream of the falsehood she had told when 
she said it was the “mistress’ ” wish, for Wilma had referred 
only to herself when she said “Her mistress”; but it had the 
effect she wished and as she slipped noiselessly from the dining- 
room, where she had listened to the conversation in the kitchen, 
she smiled to herself and felt satisfied with her success. 

She was searching in the library for a padded volume of 
Browning’s Poems, when Clarice opened the door: “I thought 
Miss Lillian or Mr. Willard might be here — Miss Genevieve to 


AFTER THREE WEEKS AT ROSELIN 


61 


see them/^ she added in reply to Wilma’s inquiring gaze. Wilma 
rose and accompanied her to the door. Genevieve was waiting in 
the hall, and Wilma in her sweetest tones, which she so seldom 
used when speaking to Genevieve, said: 

“I’m exceedingly sorry to tell you, but Willard and Lillian 
are both engaged this morning. Willard is busy with another 
of those horrid sketches and will be bothered by no one. Lillian 
isn’t at home just now; so you will be obliged to content your- 
self with me.” 

Genevieve had no intention of remaining longer and Wilma 
knew as much. With a quizzical smile she was about to turn 
back to the library when Willard, who had heard Genevieve’s 
voice, came bounding down the stairs, two at a time, exclaiming : 
“I’m never too busy to keep my promises, Wilma. Lillian and 
Grace have already gone to the lake, but I preferred waiting 
for Genevieve.” 

As he came up to them Wilma, with a frown, bade him 
to remember that he was in the house and not to be quite so 
rude. “You are awful, Willard,” she declared, and turning to 
Genevieve she resumed her sneering tones : “I wonder. Miss 
Layton, that you, with your fastidious notions, would even go 
rowing with a scapegrace like him;” and without waiting for a 
reply, she shut the door with a bang and stamped her foot 
vigorously, wondering what would become of her brother if he 
kept on. The very idea of him rowing with Grace and Gene- 
vieve ! How absurd ! and to think Lillian approved of it, and 
even accompanied them, when he hadn’t once asked her to go ; 
and again her foot was planted upon the rich Brussels. 

The sun shone brightly over the tremulous lake while Lil- 
lian and Grace watched the red canoe as it lay silently in the 
water, and then again, tipped from side to side. “There they 
come at last,” suddenly exclaimed Lillian, starting up the path 
to meet them, closely followed by Grace, who skipped along in 
happy schoolgirl fashion. 

Genevieve felt puzzled over Wilma’s words and manner. She 
was sure that her amiable tones were prompted by no good 
feelings toward herself, and she felt that her last words were 
intended as an insult toward herself rather than Willard. It 
was not Genevieve’s nature to long harbor hard feelings to- 


62 


ROSELIN 


ward anyone and soon her merry words and ringing laugh 
mingled with those around her, while the usually quiet Grace 
forgot her timidity and her gay words and lively sallies awoke 
a deeper interest for her in the hearts of her companions. 
Heretofore Willard had alternately teased and neglected the little 
girl, and as many times incurred the commendation or wrath of 
his sister. 

That was the happiest day Grace had known since she came 
to Roselin. Lillian had not slighted her once that day; Genevieve 
was always good to her, and Willard had not forgotten her 
when the little boating party was planned, and all that day he 
had been kind to her, treating her in a brotherly manner he had 
never before assumed, while Wilma, who never let an oppor- 
tunity pass for reminding her of her dependency upon ‘‘Mr. 
Allington’s generosity,” had not given her a cross look nor word 
— in fact, she had not spoken to her at all that happy day. 

But alas ! with the setting of the sun the happiness vanished 
and her cup, which she felt was about to overflow, was sud- 
denly drained of the last drop. 


GRACE DECEIVED 


63 


CHAPTER XI 

GRACE DECEIVED 

For half an hour after the light was turned out, Grace tossed 
restlessly on her pillow, while hot tears wet the lacy ruffles. 
She could not sleep, for the tears kept coming, in spite of her 
efforts to keep them back. 

“Oh! why were they so good to me? Why did they ask me 
to go if they didn’t want me?” sobbed the child. “None of 
them like me, not even Lillian. No one loves me here, but 
why did she tell me tonight? Wouldn’t morning have done as 
Well?” 

The long brown curls were thrown out on the pillow and 
the little white figure quivered as she drew the covers close 
about her face. One whole happy day at Roselin had been 
hers; but that was past. The evening clouds had driven out 
all thought of the brightness of the day. So Willard really didn’t 
want her with them on the lake that day — had only asked her 
to see what she would say; Lillian, too, was sorry she had con- 
sented to go, and Wilma was surprised that she would go 
where she knew she was not wanted. Yet Willard had asked 
her in no teasing way and Lillian had seemed delighted when 
she told her she Would go. Genevieve, at least, was glad to 
have her with them — Wilma had acknowledged as much, but 
had added: “Who is she? Only another pauper that Willard 
and Lillian have taken it into their heads to flatter, tease, and 
then break her heart — that’s all, if you must know. Be thank- 
ful, Grace, that you have some one to warn you.” She had left 
her then; but her heart was broken, her trust in those whom 
she was beginning to love was shaken, and her happiest day 
had, after all, proven the darkest. 

One after another, sobs broke the silence until a light step 
was heard and the half-closed door was pushed back. A figure 
clad in a kimono appeared. The door was softly closed behind 
her. “My dear child, why aren’t you asleep ?” asked a tender 
voice, as the soft footsteps approached the bed; and Grace was 
soon clasped in her mother’s arms. 


S4 


ROSELIN 


Mrs. Allington’s sleep had been disturbed and at last, hear- 
ing the sounds in the next room she had thrown on her kimono 
and hurried into Grace’s room to see if she were asleep and 
from whence came the sound. 

‘‘Oh ! mamma, mamma !” cried the little girl, burying her face 
on her mother’s shoulder; “why did we come here when we 
were so happy, and we never will be here? No, never!” 

“Why my darling, I thought you were happy all day.” 

“No one loves me, though; no one wants me here, and I 
wish I’d never come,” she sobbed. 

“Oh I yes they do, Gracie dear ; Lillian and Genevieve like 
you and ” 

“No, no, they don’t — Genevieve may, but Lilly doesn’t — she 
only pretends. I thought she did today and I was so happy 
but I know better now. They all hate me and wish I wasn’t 
here. Lillian and Willard didn’t really want me to go rowing 
with them. I wish I’d known it and hadn’t gone. Oh I I do ; I 
do!” Her arms clasped her mother’s neck and her tears fell 
fast upon her shoulder. 

“Then why did they ask you?” 

That was the question Grace had been asking herself and 
now her mother asked it. Broken sobs was the only answer. 

“Never mind, darling, they will learn to love you. They 
were all so nice to you today, and how do you know they didn’t 
want you?” Mrs. Allington’s voice was troubled and had in it 
a tone of soothing sympathy, and her hand smoothed the tangled 
curls. At last Grace raised her face from the folds of her 
mother’s kimono and repeated to her a part of Wilma’s con- 
versation; when just before going to her own room, she had 
stopped for a moment at Grace’s door, to tell her something 
which she thought “best for her to know.” 

“Perhaps Wilma doesn’t know how they feel toward you, 
Grace,” her mother said, as Grace’s head again sank upon her 
shoulder. Perhaps she is mistaken.” 

“No, she isn’t mamma. They laugh and make fun of me 
and she hates me, too; but she isn’t mistaken. No, I know she 
isn’t.” 

“Come, dear, don’t cry any more about it. It will all come 
right and you must go to sleep or you will make yourself sick. 


GRACE DECEIVED 


65 


Lie down now and I will stay here until you are asleep. Mamma 
will always love you, darling, and do anything to make you 
happy.” She kissed the flushed cheek, then it sank upon the 
pillow. 

“Oh ! but you can’t take me home to Vale Cottage,” sobbed 
Grace. 

No, Mrs. Allington knew that she could not do that. Some 
time they might visit there — that would be all — they would never 
live there in sweet, peaceful freedom as they once had done. 
The mother had others to look to and think of now, while 
then, everything had been for Grace. Now she had other duties 
as well. A vision of the rose-covered cottage came before 
her, of the joy and happiness she had had there in spite of the 
dreadful sorrow which had darkened her life and sent her to 
the little village of Western Springs. She had never before 
seen Grace affected as she now was. A shadow had so seldom 
clouded her bright face, and now, as the tears fell thick and 
fast, Mrs. Allington’s mingled with them. The sobbing was 
past and Grace lay upon her pillow weeping silently. 

Mrs. Allington drew the large chair to the bedside, and tak- 
ing one of the little hands in both of hers, she sat for awhile 
in silence, trying in vain to keep back her own tears. At last 
Grace broke the silence. “Mamma,” she whispered. 

“Yes, dear. I’m here,” was the quick reply. 

“I wish — I wish my brother had lived. I know he would have 
loved me,” came in broken whispers. 

“Yes, yes, Eldred would have loved you, Gracie. He loved 
his baby sister, when he was at home with us. And how we 
should have loved him, too, had he only lived.” 

“I like to hear you talk about him, mamma — my poor little 
lost brother, drowned in the sea.” 

“Your brother would have been a big boy by now, Grace; 
and a noble boy, too, I think. He was always kind and gentle 
with his little sister. He was always ready to do anything for 
you. He loved you then, dear, and I think his love would 
have grown with his body. How I wish you could remember 
him as I do, Grace.” 

There was a silence and the other little hand nestled into 
the mother’s— mother and child saw the vision of a boy; but 


5 


C6 


ROSELIN 


had the pictures been painted, one would never have recognized 
them to have been the same. Mrs. Allington’s was that of a 
little five-year-old, clad in a dark blue sailor suit. The dark 
brown curls clustered around the little white duck cap, with its 
band of navy blue. Even the little white anchor was on the 
front of the waist — ^the stars on either corner of the wide 
collar, and the narrow band of white on the left sleeve. The 
round, rosy cheeks glowed with health and happiness; and the 
big brown eyes looked wonderingly at her. On a finger of his 
right hand was a narrow band of gold, upon which was en- 
graved “E. L. She saw, too, the little black slippers 

she had reverently kissed, as she put them on him for the 
last time. She saw him just as she had seem him then — just 
as he had left for that deep, dark grave on the ocean bed. 
Oh ! why did she let him go — her boy — her darling child ? 

Grace's picture was that of a tall handsome youth of six- 
teen such as she imagined her brother would have been. He 
too, had dark curly hair, but it was not crowned by a little 
sailor cap. The eyes were bright and laughing; his manner 
kind and affectionate. Oh, why couldn't it have been? If she 
only had him to love her, she felt that she would not care for 
the love of the whole world. 

‘‘Oh, what would I give to have my little boy back again 
and my little girl happy!" murmured Mrs. Allington, more to 
herself than to Grace. “But it can never be. All I can do is 
my best to make Grace happy." 

At last silence reigned supremely. Grace had fallen into a 
peaceful sleep. Mrs. Allington still held the slender little hands 
in hers and now and then she caressed a long, dark curl, so 
much like the father’s wavy locks, over which the dark waters 
of the ocean had lashed for ten long years. An hour passed 
and Grace still slept, yet her mother did not leave her side. 
Now she looked long and lovingly upon the pale face in the 
moonlight, then tenderly kissed the thin cheek; bending now 
and then an anxious glance upon the young sleeper. 

Grace had always been delicate and it seemed to her mother 
that her face was even more pale and thin than it was wont to 
be. She had never known a sorrow, and regardless of her 
delicate health she was always bright and happy. 


GRACE DECEIVED 


67 


With a last loving caress her mother crept back to her room, 
leaving the door wide open. The village clock tolled out the 
third hour of the coming day before the angel of sleep hovered 
over her pillow. Then she was troubled by dreams of her lost 
husband and son, of the family at Roselin and of Grace’s sor- 
row. 

The sun was shining in brightly, at the open window, when 
Grace slipped from her bed the following morning. In the 
hall below she met Lillian just starting out for a morning 
walk. 

“You’re late this morning, Grace. If you were ready, I 
should take you with me,” said Lillian, hesitating at the door. 

“What of it? I wouldn’t go if I could,” was the tart reply. 
And Grace passed on without another word. 

“Oh, dear !” exclaimed Lillian, as she watched her dis- 
appear into the breakfast room; “wouldn’t go walking with 
me if she could! What has come over her? She has always 
before seemed glad enough to go.” 

When she returned she found Grace, alone in the library, 
but she immediately left the room to hide her tears. Lillian 
looked at her in astonishment and the expression of her face 
showed plainly how much Grace’s conduct pained her. After 
that morning Grace spent the greater part of her time alone 
or with her mother. She never walked or rowed with Lillian 
or Willard and several times when Willard had asked her to 
accompany them she had so coldly refused that he at last 
declared he would never ask her again. 

The icy gulf which had already existed between Mrs. Ailing- 
ton and her stepdaughters widened as the days passed. Wilma’s 
scheme had proven far more successful than she had hoped, 
and she was delighted with her efforts. One day when she 
heard Lillian and Willard puzzling over the change in Grace, 
she exclaimed: “Oh, I would worry over that child’s conduct! 
She’s only feigning.” But could Willard and Lillian have 
known how Grace had longed to be with them; how she had 
watched them from her window and listened to their happy 
voices, while tears rolled down each pale cheek, they would 
have thought differently of her. Now they saw her only as 
Wilma had pictured her — an independent^ ill-tempered little 
girl, who cared naught for their society. 


68 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XII 

A WINTER SPENT AT ROSELIN 

The summer days at last passed and the time had come for 
the family’s return to the city, when one day Mr. Allington 
announced that they would spend the winter at Roselin. Two 
years before they had remained there on account of his wife’s 
failing health, but now he was greeted by a storm of com- 
plaint. 

**One of my reasons for remaining is that Miss Marcusson 
will resume her school work in my family if we are at Rose- 
lin,” said Mr. Allington. “Her health is much improved and 
she is anxious to take up the work. Another reason is that 
my wife prefers remaining here.” 

Wilma scolded and entreated, but to no avail, while Wil- 
lard was far from pleased with the arrangement; but Lillian 
forgot the disappointment she may have felt, in her plans for 
Genevieve. 

Miss Marcusson came a few weeks later and began her 
school work. This year she had five pupils instead of three, 
Lillian herself had carried the message to Mrs. Layton that 
Genevieve could take the studies she had been longing to take 
with Miss Marcusson if she could find time outside her office 
work. For awhile Mrs. Layton hesitated to accept, but when 
she was assured that it was the wish of both Mr. and Mrs. 
Allington, she decided to let her study there, much to the de- 
light of everyone excepting Wilma, who had at first declared 
if Genevieve studied with Miss Marcusson, she herself would 
not; but Lillian, perched on the arm of her father’s chair, with 
her arms around his neck, had at last obtained his consent, in 
spite of the opposing Wilma. 

Genevieve loved books but she had hoped for nothing bet- 
ter than the village school, from which she had graduated in 
the spring, and now that the opportunity was offered, she very 
gladly accepted it and was the most industrious of Miss Mar- 


A WINTER SPENT AT RO SELIN 


6S 

cusson*s pupils. Her lessons were always perfect, and while 
Wilma frowned and complained, Willard looked on approv- 
ingly. 

Early in the winter the Angel of Death visited the farm- 
house and carried away the aged spirit of the invalid grand- 
mother, and now Genevieve no longer had to hasten home 
when her school and office work was over. Half the burden 
of home duties was lifted and after school hours she was al- 
ways ready for pleasure, and frequently, through her influence, 
Grace joined them. 

Thus, the winter passed all too soon, and again spring un- 
folded her fairy wings, called forth the tiny plants which for 
months past had been sleeping beneath the winter snow, dressed 
the trees in brightest green, and opened buds and flowers. 

When the first days of June came, Miss Marcusson left 
Roselin. Grace had perfect confidence in her teacher and 
loved her more than anyone besides her mother, and at part- 
ing she could not keep back the tears; although Miss Mar- 
cusson had promised to return in September and resume her 
work. Genevieve was to continue her studies there the follow- 
ing winter, too, and Miss Marcusson was anxious to have her, 
for she was exceedingly bright and had made wonderful pro- 
gress during the past winter. 

The friendship between Genevieve, Grace and Lillian 
strengthened as the days passed, and Grace often doubted the 
truth of what Wilma had told her. She knew that her dark- 
haired stepsister was no friend of hers, and at times she was 
half inclined to think it was only a plan to deceive her, but 
things had gone quite smoothly that winter and without her 
knowledge she had twined herself about the hearts of those 
around her. 

Wilma gladly welcomed the coming summer and with it 
Marie Carrelton, who came to spend a week at Roselin. 

‘T think your mother is lovely, Wilma,’’ Marie remarked, 
after she had been presented to Mrs. Allington and the two 
girls were alone in their room that night. 

“Oh, pray, Marie, don’t call her a mother of mine,” re- 
turned Wilma in tones of disgust. “Mrs. Allington is very 
nice but only my stepmother remember.” 


ROSELIN 


'lO 


For a moment, Marie looked puzzled, then replied: 

‘‘Oh! you call her Mrs. Allington, do you? Well, Fm glad 
you like her, Wilma, and Fll remember after this.” She play- 
fully caressed Wilma’s cheek as she finished. 

Wilma had ceased to complain of her stepmother, only when 
alone with her brother or sister, but all censorious remarks 
were now hurled at Grace. 

“But wait until you see the child, Marie — quite different 
from her mother you will say, but I should let you judge 
for yourself, I suppose.” With a little self-reproachful laugh 
she changed the subject and began telling Marie about Willard 
and Genevieve. 

“Oh! I do wish you could see them together sometimes, 
Marie,” she said; “it is perfectly disgusting to watch them. 
Why, Willard is really daffy and I can’t see why, over a girl 
of her class — so far below us, you know, Marie.” Wilma’s 
head was tossed a bit higher and Marie’s eyes, which had 
wavered in their first steady gaze into Wilma’s, now raised 
from the ribbon she had taken from her collar and rested again 
on her face. 

“I am surprised, that a boy of Willard’s position and good 
sense should fall in love with a girl such as you describe, 
Wilma,” she said slowly, trying to crush back her emotion and 
disappointment. 

“Oh, it won’t last long, when he sees you again, Marie. He 
will never think of his silly country love while in your presence,” 
was the consoling reply. 

A delicate flush mounted Marie’s cheeks and brow, and slip- 
ping her arms about Wilma’s neck, she whispered softly, look- 
ing up into the smiling face above hers : 

“You must have guessed in what regard I hold Willard, but 
don’t think I am in love, I only admire him very much and 
enjoy being in his company. I doubt if he is more than court- 
eous to me, as he has always been.” 

“I know Fm right, Marie, so don’t be silly and have horrid 
dreams tonight.” Wilma kissed the blushing cheek and left her. 

Marie had no opportunity to meet her country rival, for, 
during her stay, Genevieve did not come to Roselin. Every 
day she could hear the voices of the young people and often 


A WINTER SPENT AT ROSELIN 


n 


saw them pass her gate in the carriage or on horseback, and 
Willard always rode beside the plump, fair-haired stranger, 
for through Wilma’s schemes and plans, Willard was kept al- 
ways with them and near Marie’s side. 

Marie met Grace with a haughty coolness and Grace, with 
no admiration for the society girl, no desire to be in her 
company, returned each greeting with as much spirit and cool- 
ness as a child of thirteen could. 

One evening, when the others had gathered in the music- 
room, Grace slipped away into the library and began reading a 
book which Miss Marcusson had given her. Presently the door 
opened and Willard came in. 

“I am tired of that;” he nodded toward the music-room. 
“So I’m going to keep you company for a while. Will you 
accept it as gladly as some other people do?” taking the book 
from her hand. 

“Always gladly,” she replied, looking up at him in sur- 
prise. 

“What do you think of Miss Carrelton?” was his next ques- 
tion. 

For a moment she hesitated, then replied, quite truthfully: 
“I do not like her.” 

Willard only smiled. “Have you seen Genevieve this week?” 
he asked, a moment later. 

“I was there awhile yesterday.” 

“Would you like to go over there this evening?” 

“Now?” 

“Yes, right away.” 

“Who is going?” 

“No one unless you will go with me,” he replied. 

“Aren’t the others going?” 

“No, they don’t know we are, and I don’t intend that they 
shall.” 

“Not even Lillian?” asked Grace, in some surprise. 

“Oh, I don’t care for Lilly; but there is no use telling any 
of them. Run and tell your mamma that you are going.” 

He sat dreamily turning the leaves of Grace’s book until she 
returned saying she would go with him; then he silently led 
her out onto the veranda and down the moon-lit lane. A tiny 


ROSELIN 


72 

light gleamed out in the silence before them, while the music 
and mirth at Roselin faded as they hurried on toward Gene- 
vieve*s. 

wonder what those girls will say when they find us gone?” 
said Willard. 

“They won’t miss me, but with you it is quite different,” 
Grace returned. Then she began wondering why Willard wished 
to go to Genevieve’s and, above all, why had he asked her to 
accompany him? She had never known him to go there without 
Lillian before, and why he should leave the society of his 
sisters and their elegant guest for that of Genevieve and her- 
self was more than she could tell. All that week he had con- 
stantly been at Miss Carrelton’s side with apparently no thought 
of any other. But he had thought of Genevieve more than 
Grace could guess. He had missed her gay words and merry 
laugh from Roselin that week, as had both she and Lillian ; and 
that evening when he found Wilma so determined to keep him 
with them he was equally determined not to stay and, when she 
was seated at the piano and Marie going into ecstasies over a 
piece of embroidery beneath a rose vase on the piano, he quietly 
left the room in search of Grace from whom, he felt sure, he 
would hear something from Genevieve. Then partly to tease 
Marie and Wilma and partly because he wished to see Gene- 
vieve, he suggested going to the cottage, and before the girls 
in the music-room knew that he had left the house, he w^as in 
Mrs. Layton’s little parlor. 

Some time after Grace left her, Mrs. Allington was rest- 
ing in her sitting-room when she heard the girls searching 
for Willard. “He’s just teasing us, I know,” she heard Lil- 
lian say; “I’ll find him in his room;” and she ran joyfully up 
the stairs. She was used to her brother’s teasing pranks and 
had no doubt but that he would be found hiding from them in 
one of the dark or dimly lighted rooms; but Wilma had greater 
fears, for Willard had, the evening before, threatened to go 
to the farmhouse if Genevieve did not come to Roselin. But 
Marie, deceived by his devoted attention in the days past, laugh- 
ingly joined in the search with Lillian. 

“Got^e to Layton’s! Impossible!” Wilma’s voice suddenly 
echoed down the hall in reply to Mrs. Allington's. With an 


A WINTER SPENT AT ROSELIN 


73 


air of disgust she turned from the door and joined Marie in 
the library: ‘‘Now, Marie, you see what comes of having a 
beggarly child in the house all the time. It is quite reasonable 
that she has persuaded him to go there with her.” 

Just then Lillian came into the room. “Willard and Grace 
gone to Genevieve’s and never asked us?” she asked, the 
cherry lips pouting prettily. 

“No, indeed! Grace wanted no one but Willard, Lillian; 
and why should they ask us? The invitation would have been 
only an insult,” returned Wilma haughtily. 

“Why, Wilma, how can you say that! It wouldn’t have been 
to me — I wish I were there now, and so would Marie if she 
knew Genevieve.” 

“Pray don’t disgust Marie with your praise of Genevieve,” 
said her sister reproachfully, and Lillian fell into a moody si- 
lence, curled up in a corner of the spacious davenport, think- 
ing of the pleasures her brother and Grace were enjoying with 
Genevieve and Robert. 

Wilma sat beneath the gas jet, crumpling the leaves of 
Grace’s book, mentally accusing Willard of discourteous man- 
ners toward Marie and unbrotherly conduct toward herself ; 
while her guest — buried in the velvety softness of a large chair 
in a shaded corner of the room — was vainly trying to force 
back the tears as the words “Gone to Layton’s” re-echoed in 
her heart. There Willard was sitting at Genevieve’s side, pre- 
ferring that to a place near her own; making love to a poor 
country girl in preference to the popular Miss Carrelton; one 
of the belles of society and belonging to one of the richest 
families in Boston. Could it be that he, whom of all her ad- 
mirers she liked the best, should so desert her? How could 
she tell her mother (who had hoped so much from this visit) 
of the girl whom she feared had supplanted her in the affec- 
tions of the only boy for whom she had really cared. 

An hour passed; a dreamy silence reigned in the library; 
then a merry whistle was heard on the lawn, and Willard, with 
Grace, came bounding into the room. Exercise had brought a 
bright color to Grace’s cheeks, which now resembled the sum- 
mer roses; her dark eyes sparkled and a happy smile parted the 
rosy lips. Willard’s face, too, was bright and smiling and sur- 


74 


ROSELIN 


veying the three silent figures, his eyes shone mischievously, 
and he burst into a merry laugh. 

'^Ha! Ha! Quite an old maid’s party,” he teasingly began, 
slipping Lillian from her place on the davenport, and tipping 
Marie’s chair; '*and do we really have to leave?” Assuming a 
disappointed air he glanced toward the door. 

‘‘You seem to be your own master about such matters.” 
Wilma looked volumes at her brother, who only pulled one of 
the smooth, shining puffs of her waving hair from its place, 
and replied that in this case he would remain, adding, as he 
drew a chair near Marie’s, “but, Grace, don’t let these old 
maids rope you into their club.” 


THE BEGINNING OF SCHOOL 


75 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE BEGINNING OF SCHOOL 

After Marie’s departure, days and weeks rolled past all in 
the same dull monotony, until the middle of September came, 
bringing with it the stately golden-rod, loads of rosy fruit, 
and changing the forest leaves from green to red, brown, and 
golden. Then came arrangements for the winter’s schooling. 
Willard and Wilma had planned to attend school in Baltimore 
that year. Marie and Adelaide Richard were going, too, and as 
Lillian listened to her sister’s plans for winter gayeties, she 
felt that the home atmosphere would be unbearable with both 
her brother and sister absent, and at last Mr. Allington was 
persuaded to give his consent that she, too, might go. 

Lillian was delighted and began, at once, her arrangements 
to join them. Wilma had planned her own wardrobe without 
asking her stepmother’s advice about anything. Only once or 
twice had Mrs. Allington ventured her opinion, unasked, and 
then her advice was met by a cold look, which plainly said: “I 
shall do as I please;” but with Lillian it was different. Her 
wardrobe was given entirely into Mrs. Allington’s charge and 
planned with great care. 

Grace and Genevieve had already begun their studies with 
Miss Marcusson and each day Genevieve came to Roselin for 
her lessons. She and Lillian were better friends now than 
ever before; and she listened to the arrangements for her 
friend’s departure with a sad face. 

One evening, much later than usual, she arose from her seat 
in the school-room' and began gathering up her books, when 
Lillian entered. 

^T’m going to walk home with you, Genevieve. This is the 
last time till the holidays, you know.” 

“Then you are going in the morning, Lillian?” 

“Yes, on the ten forty-five from the village. I’m so sorry 
to leave you, Genevieve; but of course Grace is here and you 


76 


ROSELIN 


will be company for each other. You’ll study hard, I know, 
and learn lots, and I expect to study more this winter than 1 
did last; but oh! we had such good times last winter.” 

“We certainly did and how we shall miss them this. Rose- 
lin won’t seem the same to me when you are gone; of course 
I love Grace, but she can hardly fill your place, Lillian.” She 
looked affectionately upon Lillian’s face and the tears glistened 
on her long, dark lashes. 

Willard joined them as they neared the lake and they walked 
on to Genevieve’s gate. “You girls must not shed too many 
tears over this parting, for remember we return some day and 
who knows but that we shall have Genevieve with us at school 
in Baltimore next winter,” he said, as he and Lillian were about 
turning homeward. 

“Oh, Willard, don’t speak of it; I shall never have a better 
teacher than Miss Marcusson, and it is so kind of your father 
to have me study with her. I shall study hard and try to do 
justice to my teacher and benefactor.” 

“As if you didn’t last year — you’ll do them justice, I assure 
you, and not half try,” he returned. 

Long after they had left her, Willard’s words kept ringing 
in her ears. That night she could not sleep; “who knows but 
that we shall have Genevieve with us at school in Baltimore next 
year.” Would it ever be? Would she some day enjoy the 
advantages of which she heard so much and saw so little? No! 
it could never be; she must be satisfied with what she had. 
Miss Marcusson’s school was far better than she had once hoped 
to attend, and now, why should she wish for better? Then 
murmuring sadly to herself, “it can never be; it can never be,” 
she fell asleep. 

Next morning she hurried through with her few home duties 
and, ere the clock struck eight, was again in the school-room. 
Miss Marcusson assigned her some puzzling propositions in 
geometry, then excusing herself she left Genevieve alone. For 
awhile she bent over her book, trying in vain to settle her mind 
upon her lesson — it was impossible. Her thoughts kept flying 
away; following Lillian here and there as she hastened about, 
picking up small articles which had hitherto been forgotten ; 
listening to Willard’s voice as he called to passing servants ; 


THE BEGINNING OF SCHOOL 


77 


and dozens of other things which broke the silence of the 
school-room. 

At last the door opened and Lillian appeared, carrying in 
her hand a large, beautiful chrysanthemum. In a moment her 
arms were thrown about Genevieve’s neck and her coral lips 
kissing Genevieve’s cheek again and again. Now the tears hung 
heavily on Lillian’s lashes and one by one rolled down her 
cheeks. Genevieve quite bravely forced back her own tears 
and was about to whisper something to Lillian when another 
arm was around her and, ere she had time to protest, another 
pair of lips was pressed to hers. 

'‘Oh, I couldn’t help it! Honest, Genevieve, I couldn’t re- 
sist and you’ll acknowledge that it isn’t fair to give all your 
kisses and caresses to one. Lillian has already had more than 
her share.” Willard released the blushing girl. 

“Come, Lillian, or we shall be late for our train.” So say- 
ing, Willard left them, and putting her arm about Genevieve, 
Lillian drew her into the hall just as Wilma’s step was heard 
on the stairs above; but instead of assuming her haughty air 
as usual, she extended her hand to Genevieve — as, indeisd, she 
had to all the members of her father’s family — with a stiff 
“good-bye.” 

The carriage was soon rolling away and Lillian’s slender, 
gloved hand, waved the last good-bye as they disappeared around 
the shaded bend. 

“Oh, you are all here,” called a voice from the rear coach, 
as the train stopped and Adelaide’s bright young face appeared 
at the window. 

“Isn’t Marie with you?” 

“Yes, here she is;” and Marie’s face appeared beside her 
own. 

After Willard saw his sisters fairly settled with their friends, 
he left them and took a seat at the further end of the car. 
When, for a moment, Adelaide left her seat to speak to a friend 
seated opposite, Marie began: 

“What do you think, Adelaide positively refuses to room 
with us at Mrs. North’s. She has already engaged a room 
at another private house.” 

“Possible?” exclaimed Wilma. “At Mrs. North’s we shall 


78 


ROSELIN 


have an opportunity to become acquainted with some of the 
other students, and that’s the part I wouldn’t miss. My! you 
wouldn’t find me at any other private house. I don’t understand 
why Adelaide should prefer it.” 

^Terhaps I know,” whispered Marie, as Adelaide returned 
to her place beside Lillian. 

^^Aren’t you going to room with us, Adelaide?” asked Lil- 
lian, who felt more genuine regret that the bright young Ade- 
laide was not to be their companion than did either of the 
other girls. 

^‘No, I have promised to stay with an old and very dear 
friend of mamma’s, who lives only a short distance from the 
college,” Adelaide replied. “She so wished for me to be with 
her this winter that I could not refuse, much as I would like 
to be with you girls. You will have great times, I know, and 
I hope to see you quite often. Mrs. Mandel will be glad for 
you to visit me any time you can.” 

Wilma gasped as Adelaide finished. Mandel! Mandel! Then 
that was Adelaide’s reason ; she wished to be near Louis Mandel, 
to gain a place for herself in the hearts of his mother and 
sisters, and win him by her sweet smiles and quiet winning 
ways. With a bitter feeling toward Adelaide, Wilma thought 
these thoughts, but she smiled as she answered lightly : “How 
naughty of you to thus desert us for an old lady — a friend of 
your mother’s.” 

It was the beginning of school at Baltimore and about the 
depot there was a scene of confusion, as each train brought a 
number of students — some from as far west as the Mississippi. 
Trunks, boxes and suit cases were piled upon the platform, 
while anxious passengers hurried about in search of their belong- 
ings. It was late in the afternoon when the long train from 
Boston came puffing in. More trunks and boxes were tumbled 
upon the platform and more than one group of college boys 
and girls streamed from the cars. 

Willard and his sisters, with Marie and Adelaide, were soon 

on their way toward Mrs. North’s. At No. Fifth Avenue, 

they left Adelaide standing before a large beautiful building — 
the home of the Mandel’s — and a moment later they drew up 
before a big stone residence with broad white steps leading up 


THE BEGINNING OF SCHOOL 


79 


to it, tall evergreens shading it on either side and a rolling lawn, 
which was emerald still, stretching out before it. This was 
No. Moreland Place. 

Mrs. North, a friend of Mrs. Carrelton and the Allingtons, 
had been forced by financial reverses to convert her beautiful 
home into a rooming-house, and here a number of the students 
had procured rooms. Here they received the comforts and 
every privilege of home life. 

The best suite of rooms had been engaged for the Ailing- 
tons, and Marie’s apartment adjoined theirs. She had con- 
fidently expected Adelaide to share her room but now she de- 
clared she would have no other room-mate. There was a 
door opening from her room into that of Wilma and Lillian, 
and, as the former often said, it was as if they were one family. 

After the first days of examination were over and everyone 
settled in their school work, the confusion ceased and at the 
Moreland Place there reigned only the college spirit. Everyone 
was satisfied with his surroundings and days and weeks flew 
past, each bringing with it something new. But not so at 
Roselin, where Grace bent industriously over her books, and 
where Genevieve was kept busy with her work at the store and 
her studies in the school-room, hoping for nothing outside the 
daily routine. 


80 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XIV 

LLEWELLYN GREYMORE. 

“You can^t guess what I have for you.” 

Adelaide burst unannounced into the little parlor of the 
Allington apartment, where Lillian was poring over a volume 
of French, Wilma idly fingering the keys of the piano, and 
Marie talking lightly with Willard. Adelaide held four small 
white envelopes to view as she continued: 

“Alice and Helen are going to give a party for me Thurs- 
day evening. Will you all come?” 

It was the third week of school and, although Adelaide came 
often to their cozy little apartments, neither of the girls had 
as yet called at the Mandel’s. They had met both Alice and 
Helen at a college reception, and now the prospect of meeting 
Louis again brought a bright flush to Wilma’s cheek. As yet 
she had not seen him and she often wondered why he had 
not called, but always accusing Adelaide of his seeming neglect, 
her cool attitude increased. And now, when the invitations came 
from his sisters, with no message from him, she, for a mo- 
ment, hesitated; but as Adelaide talked on about the arrange- 
ments for the party she decided to go by all means. It was to 
be a small party, Adelaide said — a few friends she had met at 
the college since her arrival and several college boys whom 
Louis had met the year previous, with other friends of the 
family. 

Presently she turned to Willard and asked : “Who was that 
young man with you on the lawn as I entered the hall this 
morning?” 

“That was Llewellyn Greymore, a chap who just entered 
the University a week ago. I only met him yesterday. He 
was looking for rooms and I persuaded him to take one here.” 

“Llewellyn Greymore,” Adelaide repeated; “I think — yes, Fm 
sure, Helen had his name on the list. He’s a General’s son, 
I think she said.” 


LLEWELLYN GREYMORE 


81 


An hour later Adelaide was gone and Wilma, now left alone, 
sat thinking of Llewellyn, the son of a General Greymore. She 
too, had seen him on the lawn with Willard and had admired 
his bright, open countenance. She would meet him at Ade- 
laide’s party and exert all her efforts to keep him near her. 
She could fancy Louis Mandel’s annoyance as he watched her, 
while Llewellyn Greymore danced with her and paid her hom- 
age in a dozen little ways. Wilma had been told of her beauty 
since babyhood, and now a glance at the mirror opposite only 
confirmed the fact, and she knew that both Louis and Llewellyn 
Greymore — in fact, everyone — would admire her. This was 
her first party at Baltimore and she intended to look her very 
best. 

In a fever of excitement she waited for the evening to come 
when Louis Mandel would compare her brilliant beauty with 
that of Adelaide Richard, and see another her hero, at her 
side where he, of course, would long to be. At last Thursday 
came — the day of the party — bright, warm, and fair as a spring 
day. 

It was almost eight o’clock when the carriage drew up be- 
fore No. Fifth Avenue, and Wilma, with Lillian, followed 

their brother and Marie into the brightly lighted hall and up 
a marble stairway. When they again descended and entered the 
drawing-room, where most of the guests were assembled, a 
slight murmur ran around the room. 

Marie wore a gown of delicate pink, with emeralds nestling 
here and there among the dainty laces, while a necklace of 
diamonds encircled the short plump neck and a pink rose was 
held in place among the light coils of her hair by a Roman 
band of emeralds. Willard, tall, straight and with an air of 
self-assurance, was at her side. 

Lillian wore a gown of pale blue satin which fitted the slight 
form perfectly, and contrasted beautifully with her sister’s rich 
old rose. Among the waving tresses of her golden hair there 
nestled a white rose, just touched with a delicate tinge of pink 
on each waxy petal. She wore no jewel save a pearl brooch, 
which was fastened in the pale folds of her bodice. 

About Wilma’s neck was fastened a small gold chain and 
suspended from it, just above the rose of her gown, there 


6 


82 


ROSELIN 


sparkled a diamond crescent, while another shown in the black 
waves of her hair. Her eyes glanced hastily about the room 
and a bright glow passed over her hitherto white face. But 
before her she found not the face for which her eyes searched, 
and with a nod or a smile to those whom she knew, she passed 
on to the open door, through which she caught a glimpse of the 
dancers. There were only a few and Wilma found no familiar 
form among them. At every public gathering, since her arrival 
in Baltimore, she had viewed the sea of faces surrounding her, 
but never had she seen one that even resembled that of Louis 
Mandel, and now turning about, she drew a chair near Ade- 
laide's. 

“Isn't Louis at home?" she inquired; and she wondered at 
the strange note in her voice as she asked it. What was he to 
her ? She had not seen him since that morning when he left 
her standing on the platform at Ashville, and it had been 
months since she had received a letter from him; and what did 
it matter to her whether he was at home on this particular even- 
ing or not? She could not analyze her feelings when Ade- 
laide exclaimed : 

“Why, Wilma, I supposed you knew that he is spending the 
winter in California ! How can it be that you have not heard 
it — ^that we have not mentioned it before — ^but I really hadn't 
thought but what you knew." 

At first she felt a momentary pain that she should not see 
the face of which she sometimes dreamed; but Adelaide's next 
words conveyed to her a new thought. He often inquired about 
her, Adelaide said, and she would rather know that he thought 
of her, even beneath the sunny skies of California, than to feel, 
as she had for the past weeks, that he had forgotten the golden 
days they had spent together at Lakeview. 

A moment later Helen Mandel entered with a guest whose 
late arrival had caused several of the girls some little anxiety. 
Adelaide arose to meet them. He was then presented to Wilma 
as Llewellyn Greymore; but forgetful of her intentions to keep 
him at her side, she only sat watching him as she spoke to one 
after another of his acquaintances, and was at last led away 
to the next room. 

Willard and Marie had joined in the dance and Lillian stood 


LLEWELLYN GREYMORE 


83 


watching them when Helen came up to her and presented the 
tall, handsome stranger. His large, dark eyes looked straight 
into hers as she turned from the dancers and raised them to 
his face, which was rather thin, with lines of self-repression 
about the lips and nostrils. The heavy, brown hair was combed 
in soft dark waves back from the white brow. Lillian looked 
for a moment into the handsome face of Llewellyn Greymore — 
a stranger, yet a strangely familiar bearing. 

Half an hour later Wilma was surprised beyond measure as 
she saw the glimmer of Lillian’s pale blue satin float past the 
door with Llewellyn Greymore’s face bent close to the fragrant 
rose in her shining hair — a vision of perfect grace and beauty — 
as the sweet music of a waltz sounded through the rooms. 
After them came Willard with Adelaide, who, clad in a dainty 
gown of white silk, looked up into his face with bright, spar- 
kling eyes and smiling lips. 

Marie, thus deserted, soon found her way to Wilma’s side. 

‘‘Do you know, Wilma, I can’t like Adelaide of late,” she 
whispered, as the vision again floated into view; but Wilma, 
in whose opinion Adelaide had suddenly risen, only answered: 
“She looks quite pretty tonight.” 

“Ye-es,” was Marie’s reply. 

A moment later they were joined by Leon Worthen, a tall, 
thin youth, and a fastidious bachelor of forty-five, and with 
them soon joined in the dance. 

Wilma’s brilliant beauty and dignified manner attracted Llew- 
ellyn Greymore quite as much as the fairy form and the quiet 
sweetness of her sister’s fair face had done, and ere long he 
found himself at her side. At a suggestion from Adelaide — 
who, with Willard, passed them on their way to the conserva- 
tory — he, with Wilma, followed them mid the green, blossom- 
ing bowers, listening more to his companion’s silvery voice than 
to the gentle murmur of fountains, and drinking in her beauty 
rather than that of the rare flowers surrounding him. But when 
from between the waving boughs of a palm, he caught a glimpse 
of the glimmering blue and saw Lillian, close to Alice Mandel’s 
dark figure, bending down to examine one of her favorite flow- 
ers, the spell was broken, and Llewellyn began to wonder which 
was the more beautiful — the tall, dark girl at his side, exerting all 


84 


ROSELIN 


her efforts to please him, or her bright, unaffected little sister 
before them. 

It was quite late that night when Wilma, well pleased with 
herself and the world in general, sat before the glowing grate, 
in her dressing gown. The party had been a success, everyone 
had agreed, with the exception of Marie, who was somewhat 
piqued at the marked attention paid to Adelaide by Willard, 
and the change in Wilma's demeanor toward the girl whom 
she had professed to dislike. Marie had heard that evening, 
from his sisters, of Louis Mandel’s absence, but she never 
thought of attributing that to the change in her friend, nor to 
the jealousy she felt rising in her heart against Adelaide. 


THE FIRST VACATION 


85 


CHAPTER XV 

THE FIRST VACATION 

The snow-flakes were softly fluttering in the cold Decem- 
ber air and fast covering the brown old world with a blanket 
of white, while in the kitchen Nan bent over cranberry jelly, 
pies, cakes and candies, which she was preparing for the mor- 
row. The young ladies and Willard were to arrive that evening, 
for the next day was Christmas. Holly boughs and evergreens 
had been twined together in every room, with here and there a 
bunch of mistletoe, the white berries gleaming against the dark 
green background, and at every window a Christmas bell was 
suspended. 

Grace sat in a low chair drawn into the arch of the big 
bay-window, that she might be first to see the carriage, which 
was to bring them home from the station. They were coming 
to spend the holidays at Roselin, and a bright glow of Christ- 
mas warmth was waiting to welcome them home. 

Growing tired of her watch, Grace was about to turn from 
the window when the carriage appeared, and almost before she 
reached the door, it stopped before the gate. For a moment 
her heart sunk, but followed by her mother, she rushed on, 
and their welcome home was a hearty one. 

Although the wind was sharp and cold and the snow flurry 
continued, Willard took Grace and Mrs. Allington, together with 
Lillian, for their first ride in the new automobile, which had 
arrived only the day previous. As they neared Mrs. Layton’s 
little brown cottage, Willard, quite thoughtful of his sister’s 
wishes, turned to Lillian and asked if she would like to stop ; 
and when Mrs. Allington suggested that they take Genevieve 
with them, the two girls were delighted and soon Genevieve 
was seated beside Willard, so bewildered with the pleasure she 


86 


ROSELJN 


was enjoying, she could scarcely think. ‘‘It was so unexpected 
and so grand,” she said, when describing the ride to her mother, 
who was delighted more, if possible, than Genevieve herself. 

Even Wilma was glad to rest at Roselin once more, after 
weeks of gayety and study; for Wilma, as well as Lillian and 
Willard, had spent much time with her school work. Lillian 
was never before so happy as she was during the holidays, when, 
with all studies dismissed from her mind, she was free to go 
where her fancy led her — coasting with Robert Layton or Grace, 
skating with Willard and Genevieve or riding with her father — 
and she declared there was nothing better than the delicious 
things old Nan had prepared for that Christmas dinner. Nan 
only wiped the beads of perspiration from her dark brow, and 
felt that she was well repaid for her labors of the past week, 
if she had in some way pleased “Little Lilly.” Anything at 
home pleased Lillian, and with a hearty squeeze of the fat, black 
hand, a loving caress of the little fluffy white kitten, purring at 
her feet, she tripped from the kitchen. 

Roselin was not the same with Lillian absent as it was with 
Lillian present, and she made more than one heart glad that 
Christmas Day, by her sunny smile, kind words and loving 
manner. 

Mr. Allington felt that he had lost something of life when 
he had quietly consented for all of his children to leave him. 
Lillian always seemed to him the spirit of her mother, which 
hovered so lovingly about him. And during their absence, he 
often came home from the office, tired and moody, hardly notic- 
ing Grace. Once he had told her stories about Roselin, and 
caressed her dark brown curls, but now it was all changed. But 
a year and a half at Roselin had changed other things as well. 
It had softened Wilma’s manner toward her; it had made Gene- 
vieve Layton her friend and constant companion, and above all 
else, it had dispelled from her mind all fear that she was dis- 
liked by Lillian or Willard. So if Mr. Allington was not as 
kind as he once was, it mattered but little to Grace. 

Mrs. Allington’s path had not been all roses and sunshine, 
even with Wilma absent, for she had noticed her husband’s 
manner of late and the cloud which darkened his brow, and 


THE FIRST VACATION 


87 


it had annoyed her very much; but now that the girls and 
Willard were at home, the cloud lifted and the sunshine shone 
once more in the home; while the cold, wintry wind, laden with 
snow-flakes, blew without. 

Toward the close of the holidays, Marie and her mother 
came to Roselin, but their visit added nothing to anyone’s 
pleasure, save, perhaps, Wilma’s, who looked brighter and smiled 
sweeter when in their presence, than she had before their ar- 
rival. 


88 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XVI 

AFTER VACATION 

The warm spring days were just opening and the golden 
edge of the full moon peeped over the tops of the distant 
buildings and sent a silvery ray of light into the gathering 

darkness. Down the broad steps of No. Fifth Avenue came 

a tall, dark figure, and made its way through the crowd of 
students moving along the street. Several times he paused to 
speak to a passing friend, and once stopped for some time 
before an astonished group, who, in the brightening moonlight, 
could be ’ recognized at once as Willard, Marie and Lillian; 
then raising his hat he moved on. 

Most of the students had gone to the concert and the More- 
land Place was more quiet than usual, as the same stately figure 
crossed the lawn, hurried up the steps and into the dimly lighted 
hall. 

Wilma had refused to attend the concert that evening and 
in silence she watched the others depart. Llewellyn Greymore, 
she knew, was not going and she sat down, wondering if he 
would not come down to the parlor when he learned that she 
had not gone with the others. And for awhile she forgot her 
aching head, as she thought of the marked preference paid her 
by the boy, whom all his classmates and fellow-students re- 
vered above all others ; while many of the young girls of Balti- 
more had cast their nets in Llewellyn Greymore^s path, in the 
vain hope that he would be entangled. But as yet he was hers — 
her hero and her servant. 

He was a year younger than she, but often as she looked 
upon the calm, fair brow and tall, manly form, she felt that 
he was by years her senior. But little did age matter to her as 
long as his father was the General Windford Greymore, who 
had only the year before returned from Europe, where his son 
had received every educational advantage possible and borne 
away the laurels of his class. He was now taking a preparatory 
course in medicine and some day hoped to be a noted physician. 


AFTER VACATION 


89 


Llewellyn was a great friend of her brother, and often spent 
his evenings with them, at first dividing his attention equally 
between the two sisters, but at last giving all of it to Wilma, who 
seemed to expect him always at her side; while Lillian met him 
with the same warm, friendly greeting and talked with him 
much in the same manner as she did with Willard — always bright 
and always smiling. 

While Wilma sat thinking how she had won Llewellyn Grey- 
more, even from her sister, of whom she had at first felt a 
pang of jealousy, there was a gentle tap on the door and the 
maid, mindful of Wilma’s headache, said softly: 

caller. Miss Allington, and Mrs. North wishes to know 
if you will see him downstairs or shall she send him up to 
your parlor?” 

*'Yes, you may send him up here;” and Wilma, pushing back 
her curls and pinching her cheeks which were unusually pale, 
pressed one hand to her brow and waited. 

Presently the door opened and the maid stood aside to ad- 
mit the visitor. An exclamation of surprise escaped from 
Wilma’s lips as she saw before her, not the form of Llewellyn 
Greymore, but the stately form of Louis Mandel. Quickly col- 
lecting herself, she extended her hand, expressing her surprise 
at seeing him when she had svipposed him to be in California. 

'‘Have you nothing to express save surprise?” he asked, with 
a note of disappointment in his voice. 

"Oh ! yes, but please, Mr. Mandel, give me time for words. 
I am certainly glad to see you again ; glad you came tonight, 
but perhaps you may be disappointed when I tell you that Wil- 
lard, with Marie and my sister, has gone to the concert.” While 
saying this, she withdrew her hand from both of his. 

"I met them as I came,” he said seating her on the divan and 
sitting down beside her, talking on of California and its beauty, 

of his early return, how he surprised the family at No. 

Fifth Avenue, and adding; "I thought of calling last evening 
but my mother and sisters would not listen to my going out 
on the first evening of my return. 

"His mother, his sisters — and Adelaide,” Wilma mentally 
added, while the slight flush on her cheek deepened to a burning 
red, which only increased her beauty. 


90 


ROSELIN 


Ere long the others returned and with them Llewellyn. 

“Glad to see you home, Louis,” and Llewellyn Greymore 
grasped Louis Mandel’s hand with a hearty shake, then with 
a word to Wilma, in which she could not detect a spark of 
the jealousy she had hoped for, he turned to Lillian and drew 
a chair near hers, while the bright glow on Wilma’s cheek faded 
and she listened quietly to the gay conversation about her. 

Louis and Llewellyn had known each other since the latter’s 
return from Europe and it was with a feeling of disappoint- 
ment that Llewellyn had heard, after his arrival at Baltimore, 
of his friend’s departure for the West the month before, and 
now, when he found him so unexpectedly by Wilma’s side, 
it did not for a moment mar his pleasure; but turning to the 
sister, whom he was beginning to admire even more than he did 
the beautiful Wilma, with her many charms, he devoted himself 
to her for the remainder of the evening. 

After they were gone and Lillian and Marie were fast asleep 
upon their pillows, Wilma still sat — her headache unabating — 
thinking of Louis and Llewellyn. Once she had thought of 
causing Louis Mandel pangs of jealousy by her seeming pref- 
erence of the young Greymore; but now, as she sat staring 
into the glowing grate, seeing only the two faces before her — 
one with the large, brown eyes, from whose sparkling depths 
there shone a mild light of dreamy tenderness ; while the other’s, 
large, clear and blue, had in them a singular fascination — there 
crept over her a feeling of anger that Llewellyn, so calm and 
unannoyed, should, with an air of satisfaction, turn from her to 
Lillian — Lillian, who at that moment lay peacefully dreaming 
of those same brown eyes which were looking out from the 
grate upon her sister — all unconscious of the pain she had 
caused her, and of the dark frown clouding her brow, as 
she crept softly to bed by her side. 

As days and weeks slipped past, Louis and Llewellyn often 
came together to the Allington apartments, and to them it was 
evidently understood that while Louis played the devoted to 
Wilma, Llewellyn honored and admired her bright, unaffected 
little sister. At parties, operas and concerts it was the same, 
while more than one maiden, who had felt the cold sharpness of 
Miss Allington’s manner, smiled at her ignominious defeat; 


AFTER VACATION 


91 


while others sneered at the unsuspecting Lillian, who, never 
dreaming of having defeated her sister, received Llewellyn’s at- 
tentions as if he were only a friend of her brother, for 
Llewellyn and Willard had become fast friends. Lillian, it is 
true, often noticed the change in Wilma’s manner toward 
Llewellyn, which now assumed a touch of coldness — when once 
it had been so warm and cordial — and she sometimes wondered 
that her sister should prefer the fair-haired Louis, upon whom 
she now lavished all her smiles. 

Wilma had dispelled every ill-feeling against Adelaide, with 
whom the girls were now on the most intimate terms — ^Louis 
often carrying messages to them, which he delivered as from 
“my sister Adelaide.” He and Adelaide had been friends since 
the days when they had played together among the old New 
Hampshire hills, years ago, and now that she was a member 
of his family, he treated her as if she were indeed his sister; 
teasing, petting and caressing her as he did Alice and Helen, 
while his mother, who loved “the child” dearly, smiled at his 
brotherly conduct toward her. And Adelaide often followed him 
to the door, with the same bright smile, to send some messages 
to Wilma, to Lillian or Marie and now and then one to Willard, 
which, strange to say, Louis Mandel always neglected to de- 
liver. 

At first Marie’s conduct had annoyed Willard exceedingly, 
for she was always at his side when in his presence, but when 
he saw how others strove for a smile or a word from the wealthy 
girl he felt flattered, and in spite of having once declared to 
Wilma that he hated her, he was quite content to have her 
with him. And he admired her when he found that she was not 
the coquette he had thought her to be; for Wilma had told 
Marie how thoroughly he detested a coquette, and she always 
frowned on all other suitors. 

Thus the spring days passed and with the first days of June 
came the last of school and the parting of many students; 
some with hopes of meeting there again, while others left the 
old University to start upon the path of duty which lay before 
them, bright and hopeful. 


92 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XVII 

CARLSON & COLLTNS’ NEW EMPLOYEE 

Summer, winter, and another summer had flown past and 
again the October sun was sinking. It hung low in the west 
and only the mellow glow of its last rays tinted the red and 
golden leaves, touched the evergreen trees surrounding More- 
land Place, and fell over the city of Baltimore. Moving slowly 
down the street in the direction of Moreland Place, came a young 
girl — tall, slender, and graceful in every movement. She had 
apparently forgotten every duty. Her face, tired in its ex- 
pression, was raised to the sinking sun, whose lingering rays 
seemed to caress the shining bands of dark hair which were 
visible beneath the plain brown hat. Slowly — almost wearily — 
she turned from the western sky, quickened her step, and was 
soon at Moreland Place. 

Just as she was about to ascend the stairs, a pair of soft, 
white arms were thrown about her neck and a kiss, which 
brought a bright smile to the tired face, was placed upon her 
cheek. 

You’re coming down tonight, aren’t you? It will rest you, 
poor tired dearie,” said the pleading voice. 

“No, no, Lillian, I can’t come down tonight; I have some 
studying to do and a report to make out for Mr. Collins, so 
you will please excuse me tonight.” 

This was not the first time Carlson & Collins’ employee had 
refused Lillian Allington’s urgent invitation to spend her even- 
ings with them, and Lillian only wound her arms closer about 
her. 

“You shall not go till you promise.” 

“But, Lillian, do you want me to lose my position in the office 
and class, and leave Baltimore forever? I don’t think you do,” 
she said smilingly. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t do that, but just as you like. If you don’t 
come down I shall come to your room.” 


CARLSON & COLLINS' NEW EMPLOYEE 


93 


“I shall expect you then and the young girl ran up the 
stairs, down the hall and into a small, plainly furnished room. 
Yet it had about it a home-like appearance, with a book or a 
sofa pillow lying here and there, a picture on the mantel over 
the open grate, and a clean ingrain rug upon the floor. Throw- 
ing herself into the chair by the window, she glanced out over 
the city, forgetful of the lessons to be gotten and the report 
to be made out for her employer ; and her thoughts drifted away 
to the past. 

'‘Ah! is it truly I, Genevieve Layton, who holds a position 
in the law office of Carlson & Collins? — possible that I am at- 
tending the College and have the opportunity to gain the knowl- 
edge for which I have so often longed?” she asked herself, as 
she at last gathered up her books and began her work. 

Two years before when Willard had said, “Who knows but 
that we shall have Genevieve with us at school in Baltimore 
next year,” she had answered, “It will never be.” It was not 
to be the next year, it is true, for while the Allingtons spent 
their second year at Baltimore, Genevieve and Grace had studied 
in that little school-room at Roselin, where Miss Marcusson had 
taught them the lessons they had learned so well. 

It was late in the summer, when upon the death of a dis- 
tant aunt, Genevieve came into possession of a few hundred 
dollars, which seemed to her quite a small fortune. Robert s 
wages, together with what Genevieve and her mother earned, 
made the little family an ample support; so Genevieve's money 
was laid aside for a while, until one evening after she had re- 
turned from the store, as she and her mother sat sewing, the 
latter broke the silence by saying: 

“Genevieve, I think I have heard you wish that you could 
go to school as the Allingtons do.” Genevieve looked up in sur- 
prise for she had never before heard her mother mention it.^ 

“Well, yes, Tve sometimes thought Td like it ” she said, 
crushing down the wild longing for school and knowledge which 
she felt rising within her. 

“I've been thinking that perhaps Aunt Clara's money would 
help you a great deal, providing you choose a cheap school. I 
should like so much for you to be well educated, Genevieve.” 


94 


ROSELIN 


“Do you mean for me to take the money Aunt Clara left me 
and attend school next winter, mother?” Genevieve’s voice had 
in it a hopeful thrill, and she dropped her sewing and moved 
close to her mother’s chair. 

“That is what I mean, dear;” and the mother looked lovingly 
at Genevieve’s face as the joy broke out over it, brightening it 
and making it beautiful. 

“Oh! mother, can it be that that for which I have most 
longed and least hoped, shall at last be given me?” she cried joy- 
fully, then after a moment’s thought she added: “I had never 
thought of using Aunt Clara’s money for that purpose, and I 
don’t think I can leave you, mother dear.” 

“I shall miss you very much, Genevieve, but I want you to 
go,” Mrs. Layton had said, drawing her daughter to her and 
kissing her. Thus it was that Genevieve Layton had decided 
to attend school the coming winter and at last, through the in- 
fluence of Mrs. Allington and Lillian, it was settled that she 
should attend the College in Baltimore. At first it had seemed 
an impossibility, but when Willard, through Chester Collins, his 
friend and the junior partner of Carlson & Collins law firm, 
secured for her a position in that office, it was decided, and at 
the beginning of the school term she found herself a roomer at 
Mrs. North’s. 

When Wilma heard of the arrangements for Genevieve’s 
schooling her anger burst forth in a violent storm. How poor, 
ignorant girls like Genevieve could attend school in Baltimore 
she could not see; what would a few hundred from a relative 
amount to? “Why it won’t buy her decent clothes for the 
School-room, much less clothes in which to appear at Mrs. 
North’s with my sister,” she exclaimed; “and where is her 
tuition coming from, I should like to know ! I suppose some 
of her Roselin friends have taken it upon themselves to pay 
that.” She looked accusingly at Mrs. Allington. 

“Genevieve will do very well, I think, without asking aid 
from Roselin. A girl with a good position can make her way 
very well through school, and your brother thinks a better 
position for her than in Carlson & Collins’ office cannot be 
found,” said Mrs. Allington, slowly. 


CARLSON & COLLINS’ NEW EMPLOYEE 


95 


^‘Carlson & Collins, indeed! I suppose if she had a posi- 
tion there she could do very well, but the difficulty is getting 
it,’’ Wilma answered. 

“Oh! hasn’t your brother nor Lillian told you?” asked her 
stepmother, in evident surprise. “Have they not told you that 
she has the position?” 

“I had not heard the good news,” sneered Wilma. 

“It was very kind of Willard to help her,” Mrs. Allington re- 
plied, half to herself ; and Wilma left the room as she hissed : 
“Kind indeed !” 

In the library she found her sister and brother with Grace 
and again the storm burst forth. Grace fled from the room; 
Lillian soon followed her, and Willard was left alone. At last 
he said with quiet composure : 

“You will please leave me to judge my own actions here- 
after, Wilma. I’ve had enough of your censure and advice; 
kindly keep it to yourself in the future.” 

He had never before spoken in that manner and it puzzled 
Wilma. She had always known that she could not influence 
him as she did Lillian, but he usually replied with a teasing re- 
mark. This time he strode from the room without a smile or 
jest. He meant what he had said, and Wilma knew it, and 
after that she had never mentioned Genevieve to him, but to- 
ward her she assumed a cold, haughty manner of ignorance. 
Genevieve felt frozen when Wilma’s eyes rested upon her with 
a cold gaze, and she avoided her presence as much as possible. 
This was the reason she always refused Lillian’s kind invitations 
to come to their rooms during the evening hours. 

Genevieve had met but a very few of the students since her 
arrival in Baltimore. She left her room before the others were 
up, and hurried to the office to begin her work. There she 
remained until school time and after school hours until late in 
the evening, going back to her room at Mrs. North’s, tired and 
weary. She had a hasty breakfast at a restaurant, and there 
also she ate dinner and supper. Was this the life for which 
she had longed? Was this the life of pleasure and happiness, 
such as most of the students enjoyed? Ah! no, theirs was 
a life of freedom compared with hers, and yet, she was satisfied. 
The thought that she should some day be able to make her own 


96 


ROSELIN 


way in the world was very sweet to her. Then she should have 
her mother with her and enjoy life. This was her highest 
hope; her highest aim. 

This evening she was more tired than usual and after awhile 
she laid aside her books, folded the report for her employer, 
and placed it in her purse. Presently the door opened and 
Lillian, according to her promise, came tripping in. 

She often came to Genevieve’s room, but Genevieve had re- 
fused all invitations, until on this occasion, when on leaving her, 
Lillian said solemnly: “Genevieve, you really haven’t any excuse 
for not coming down once in awhile. I shall never enter this 
room again if you refuse to come tomorrow evening. Will you 
come?” For a moment Genevieve hesitated, then said slowly: 

“I have very good reasons for having refused so often, Lil- 
lian, but if you wish it, I shall try and find time to come down 
for awhile.” 

“I do wish it,” said Lillian, with emphasis, “and Willard said 
tell you he is coming for you so you can’t refuse.” 

Then she was gone, and Genevieve turned slowly from the 
door and sank down on the rug by the grate, and resting her 
elbow upon a chair, her head sank wearily upon her hand as 
she thought, “Why did they ask me? If they knew how their 
sister hates me, how I dread to be in her presence and meet 
their fashionable friends, they would forgive me; I know they 
would. But I have promised; Willard will come for me, and 
I must go. Oh, but for Wilma, how I should enjoy it; though 
for Lillian’s friendship I can endure.” 

Genevieve had seen Marie on the lawn and in the hall with 
Wilma, and she knew that the fair-haired heiress was as proud 
and haughty as her companion. She was sure to meet her when 
she went to the Allington apartments, and she felt that Marie 
would despise her for the little attentions paid her by Willard, 
and in this she was not far wrong, for Marie’s dislike for 
Genevieve had grown much of late. 

For Genevieve, the next day seemed all too short; evening 
came all too soon; and she found herself at the Allington apart- 
ments, clad in a simple dress of deep crimson, with white 
bands of dainty embroidery at wrists and throat. Llewellyn 


CARLSON & COLLINS^ NEW EMPLOYEE 


97 


Greymore was there, and a moment later Louis Mandel came 
in, accompanied by Adelaide, who had been especially invited by 
Lillian, that she might meet Genevieve. 

Genevieve noticed Marie^s contemptuous sneer and Wilma's 
haughty ignorance. They scarcely spoke to her during the 
evening, and, when they did, it was with an air of one far 
superior. As their cold attitude increased, Lillian and Willard 
became more attentive. At last Wilma turned to Llewellyn, 
who sat near her, and said in a low voice : 

“Isn’t it surprising how some poor, low, ignorant people are 
sometimes patronized by those far their superior? Somehow 
I could never bring myself to do it.” 

Llewellyn did not reply, but he raised his eyes and they in- 
stantly met those of Genevieve. She sat opposite them at the 
farther side of the room. Her face was flushed and for a moment 
her dark eyes flashed upon them, then sank beneath his kind, 
courteous glance, and the color died out of her cheeks, leav- 
ing them very pale. He knew that she had caught those low 
spoken words and his sympathy went out to the girl whom 
Lillian loved most devotedly, whom Willard seemed to respect 
and admire, and whom their sister had thus irretrievably in- 
sulted. He knew only one other had heard Wilma’s remark, 
and Louis was now so interested in his companion that neither 
of them noticed Genevieve, who, during the remainder of the 
evening, sat silently listening to the others. Occasionally she 
met a cold glance from Louis Mandel’s blue eyes and fre- 
quently her own rested upon Llewellyn Greymore’s face with 
a long, steady gaze, which instantly gained his respect and con- 
fidence. 

As she at last went to her room with Willard, she resolute- 
ly resolved never again to enter those rooms in Wilma’s pres- 
ence. “No, I cannot do it,” she sobbed, as the door closed and 
the sound of Willard’s step died away. “I’ll never again thrust 
myself into her presence, even if it costs me the friendship of 
those I love. I wish I had never come to Baltimore; then I 
should have avoided Marie’s cold, envious eyes, avoided Wilma’s 


7 


98 


ROSELIN 


remarks, retained Lillian’s love, Willard’s friendship, and some 
time, perhaos, have gained the respect of those in whose opinion 
I have fallen — in their estimation "poor, low and ignorant.’ ” 
Her head sank down among the pillows, and her hands 
clasped together before her, as she poured out her griefs and 
sorrows before the great white throne of her King and Master; 
He who is Father to the fatherless and comforteth those who 
trust in Him. 


GENEVIEVE 


99 


CHAPTER XVIII 

GENEVIEVE 

One evening, as the month of December was nearing the 
holiday season, Genevieve rose from her desk, put the books in 
the safe, and turned to Mr. Carlson, who sat at the desk 
opposite. 

“I think I can finish up the work tomorrow, Mr. Carlson,” 
she said. 

“You are doing very good work. Miss Layton.” 

Her employer looked up at her and a pleased smile parted 
his lips. She had gradually won the respect and confidence of 
both Mr. Carlson and Mr. Collins. Her work was done well 
and always on time; and her employers were now beginning 
to realize and appreciate the full value of their employee. No 
matter how heavy the load pressing down upon her heart, Gene- 
vieve was always pleasant and, although her face was some- 
times pale and worn, there was a smile lingering about the 
mouth, and a quiet gentleness in her manner, which completely 
won the hearts of everyone who saw her at the office. 

“Just a minute. Miss Layton,” Mr. Carlson added, as she 
was about to leave the office; “I have a package of invitations 
I would like for you to deliver to some of our friends at 
Mrs. North’s, if you will be so kind.” 

“I am only too glad to do it for you,” she said, taking from 
his hand the package of white envelopes, and he continued : 

“I hope you can spare the time from your studies to honor 
us with your presence. Miss Genevieve. You can hardly re- 
fuse, I think.” 

For a moment she looked at him in astonishment. Could 
it be that one of the invitations she held was for her ? Mr. 
and Mrs. Carlson were to entertain a number of their society 
friends, the next week, but it was hardly probable that they 
would think of inviting a plain, country girl, who worked several 
hours each day at their office, to come to their elegant home and 


100 


ROSELIN 


mingle with their fashionable friends. And Genevieve only 
murmured: ‘^Thank you, Mr. Carlson, but I fear it will be im- 
possible,” as she turned from the desk and left the room; 
while Mr. Carlson’s eyes followed her. 

most noble girl !” he said to himself as he turned 
slowly back to his work. I fear Chester Collins will be more 
than disappointed, for Fni confident she will say she can’t leave 
her studies.” 

When she reached her room, Genevieve carefully untied the 
dainty blue bow, and began looking over the invitations — in- 
vitations for the Allingtons, for Marie, for Llewellyn, one for 
Mrs. North, and three or four others. The last one she took up 
with a cry of delight, for there she read her own name — “Miss 
Genevieve Layton” — ^written by the same hand that had addressed 
the others. A dainty perfume floated out on the air as she re- 
moved the linen card from its envelope; and she gazed long 
at the engraved words. 

“I in society? Never, never!” she cried, choking back the 
sobs which rose to her throat, as she thought that after all 
she had a friend in Mr. Carlson, who had not forgotten the 
poor, lonely girl, even in his plans for society. 

Slowly she gathered up the other envelopes and started down 
the hall. She had often seen Llewellyn since that October 
evening spent with the Allingtons, and he had always passed 
her with a kind, friendly smile, and a courteous bow; and now 
as she paused at his door she saw him coming up the hall 
toward her. 

“Pardon me, Mr. Greymore; Mr. Carlson requested me to 
deliver this,” extending one of the envelopes toward him. 

“Thank you. Are you going to Lillian’s now. Miss Layton? 
Pardon my impertinence,” he added hurriedly. 

“Yes, I have invitations for them, also.” 

“But aren’t you going to spend the evening with her? She 
will be very much pained if you refuse again. Miss Layton.” 
Llewellyn came a step nearer as he spoke, and turning quickly 
toward him, she looked steadily up into his face, as she an- 
swered : 

“Do you imagine, Mr. Greymore, that I could go there after 
hearing that contemptuous remark?” 


GENEVIEVE 


101 


“I sincerely beg your pardon, Miss La3don; but you should 
value Lillian's friendship, and that of her brother more highly 
than you do. You should not let her sister's thoughtless re- 
marks come between you." 

“My love for Lillian and my regard for Willard will always 
remain unchanged, Mr. Greymore, but my visits there are more 
painful than you may imagine." 

“Then you will not go, even for Lillian's sake?" 

“No, I will not; I cannot." 

“Does Lillian know your reason for refusing? he asked. 

“My work and my studies are my only excuses." 

“Miss Layton," said Llewellyn, “Willard and Lillian are 
your best friends and mine." 

“They are not only my best friends, Mr. Greymore, they 
are my only friends here, with the exception of Mrs. North 
and my employers," she said. 

“Do you mean that you wish for no others?" Llewellyn 
asked. 

“I did not say that I wished for no others. But wishes 
do not make friends," she returned, somewhat sadly. 

“One must not number one's friends. I assure you, you at 
least have one more than you think; but Lillian Allington loves 
you most devotedly. She loves you as if you were her own 
sister." 

The tears which glistened in Genevieve's eyes and hung upon 
the long lashes, was a sufficient answer, as she silently turned 
away. 

For an instant she had thought of asking him to- take the 
invitations to the Allingtons, but only for a moment. Mr. 
Carlson had asked her to deliver them and she would not shirk 
her duty, however, hard it might be. A moment later she stood 
at the door, which was opened by Wilma. Assuming an air 
of indifference she tried to speak naturally, as she gave the 
envelopes into Wilma's white, jeweled hand. Lillian sat at the 
farther side of the room, studying, but as she heard Genevieve's 
voice, she sprang to the door, just as Wilma was about to close 
it. 

“Oh! Genevieve, can't you come in?" 


102 


ROSELIN 


“No, Lillian, Mr. Carlson entrusted these invitations to my 
care and I must deliver them.’* 

“If you will wait, just a minute, I will go with you.” 

“Certainly, I shall wait here”; and Genevieve stood at the 
open door. 

“Who are those invitations from, Wilma?” asked Willard, 
moving from Marie’s side and coming near the door. 

“From Mr. and Mrs. Carlson,” was the reply. 

“Oh, yes ! The last party before the holidays !” Then turn- 
ing to the door, he stepped into the hall. “How is work this 
week, Genevieve?” he asked. 

“Very well, thank you; “I’m always busy, but I like it as 
well, perhaps better, than ever.” 

“Glad you do. I presume you have an invitation to the 
party at Mr. Carlson’s, have you not?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she answered, quietly. 

“Will you allow me the pleasure of being your escort?” His 
voice fell to almost a whisper, and quickly Genevieve looked 
up. Marie’s blue eyes were fastened upon her with a cold, ques- 
tioning gaze, while Wilma’s sharp black ones rested full upon 
her, watching every movement and striving in vain to catch 
their words. The hot blood rushed to Genevieve’s cheeks and 
the words she might have uttered, but for those eyes fastened 
upon her, were crushed down, and she said slowly and earnestly, 
in a low voice : 

“It is absurd for me to think of going, Willard. I shall 
stay at home with my books. Thank you very much for your 

kind offer ; I am very sorry I cannot accept.” 

Willard took her arm and walked slowly down the hall as 
he answered: “You can if you will, Genevieve. Your books do 
not need you half as much as society does. If you accept this 
invitation, there will be others after the holidays, while if you 
refuse this you refuse the chance of your life. Believe me, 
Genevieve, you must go; society has need of more girls like 
you.” 

“Girls like me, Willard? The idea; what could society do 

with homely country girls like me ?” Genevieve laughed a 

mirthful little laugh she did not feel, and went on; “No, Wil- 


GENEVIEVE 


103 


lard, no one can possibly miss me, when there are so many 
others. I think I shall remain at home.” 

‘‘Have your way then, as you always do, but I am very 
sorry.” Just then Lillian came up to them and he added: 
“You may remember, Genevieve, that while you study alone in 
your room, some one is missing you, and some one is wishing 
for you.” 

“Did she say she was invited to the party?” asked Wilma, 
when Willard came back to the room. 

“She did,” was the answer. 

“And you, of course, immediately offered yourself as her 
escort,” said Wilma, feeling confident that he would reply in the 
negative, but great was her surprise when he turned to her 
and said sharply : 

“I did; but what is that to you?” 

“Nothing at all,” answered his sister, in a smooth voice. 
“I presume she accepted.” 

Willard did not reply, but taking up his hat, left the room 
without a glance or word to Marie, who could scarcely keep 
back the tears as the doors slammed together and she was left 
alone with Wilma. 

The days passed, and Lillian’s visits to Genevieve’s room 
became more frequent than they had been for the past month, 
but all of her entreaties availed nothing, Genevieve would not 
consent to attend the party. 

One day Lillian came to say that Willard was going to take 
Marie. 

“Now, aren’t you sorry you wouldn’t go? She knows 
that he asked you, too, and she is only too glad that you re- 
fused,” she said. 

“I’m glad I pleased someone by my decision,” was Gene- 
vieve’s reply. 

She had seen neither Llewellyn nor Willard since the day 
she had delivered their invitations, and after Lillian left her 
she sat thinking of what Willard had said, “Then, remember, 
Genevieve, that while you study alone in your room, someone 
is missing you ; someone is wishing for you.” 

Genevieve was surprised at the comfort those words gave her, 
and angrily shaking herself, she tried to believe that they were 


104 


ROSELIN 


not sincere, but she knew that he had spoken the truth. Even 
though he attended the party with Marie, he would think of 
her and wish for her. But she would not be there, she would 
be studying alone, here in her small lonely room, and for a 
moment her heart longed for the gay scene, the spacious draw- 
ing-rooms filled with laughter, mirth and music; and she half 
wished that her answer to Willard had been different. It was 
only Wilma’s scorn and hatred that had kept her from consent- 
ing, and beneath the cover of her work and studies, she had 
shrunk from the contemptuous remarks that were sure to fall 
about her on her first appearance in society, and refused the cup 
of pleasure offered her. 

It was the day of the party that Mr. Carlson came into the 
office, laid his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly manner, and 
remarked : 

‘‘I hope you have changed your mind and decided to give up 
your books for one evening. We must have you at our home 
this evening, Miss Layton. I advise you to leave your studies 
for once; and it is not entirely a selfish motive that prompts 
me to advise you thus ; I think it is best for you. Perhaps you 
do not notice your impaired looks, but others do, and you must 
not confine yourself so much to study.” 

“It was so kind of you to remember me with an invitation 
and I am very sorry to refuse. I thank you very much for your 
kind interest, too, Mr. Carlson, but how can I succeed without 
study?” 

“Yes! Yes! A little, Miss Layton, but not too much, you 
know, or you may fail ere the time for success.” Then Mr. 
Collins came in and presently Mr. Carlson left the office. 

“Mr. Carlson has been speaking to you of the party, has he 
not. Miss Layton?” 

“Yes, he thinks I should give up my books and attend, and he 
doesn’t know how it pains me to refuse his request.” Gene- 
■•vieve’s voice trembled slightly, and Mr. Collins said: 

“Miss Layton, as your employer, I claim the privilege of 
being your escort this evening, and introducing you into so- 
ciety at the home of Mr. Carlson. If you refuse, Miss Layton, 
we shall be more disappointed than you think. Will you allow 
us the privilege?” He took her hand and looked down at her; 


GENEVIEVE 


105 


but her face did not change in its expression, as she at last 
raised her eyes from the desk, and looking up at him, slowly 
replied : 

'‘If you think it best for me to leave my work, I suppose I 
must comply with your wishes.” 

Genevieve hardly knew how she passed the remainder of 
that day. The sky that had been bright above her seemed sud- 
denly to have become darkened, and she tried in vain to shake 
off the dull pain that crept over her, and the bitter feeling of 
resentment that kept throbbing in her heart. 

“Oh! what will Willard think of me; what must he think of 
me !” she kept crying to herself ; and she continued her work 
as one in a dream. 

Upon reaching her room, she tried to reason it to herself 
and think that everything was for the best. 

“I shall explain to Willard,” she thought. “‘How could I re- 
fuse my employers, who have been so kind to me, and advise 
me only for my own sake. Oh I how could I refuse them ! 
Surely Willard will understand and forgive me! Why did I 
shrink from meeting Wilma on equal ground; why should I 
care for her insults? They cannot affect those who are now 
my friends, and for whose opinion I care most. Llewellyn 
Greymore, I believe is my friend; my employers will not for- 
sake me, and Lillian and Willard have proven true, thus far. If 
I remain here alone, in my dreary little room, he will think of 
me; he will wish for me; while if I go — if I go — .” She could 
not finish ; but burying her face in her hands she only sobbed : 
“Can he forgive me?” 


106 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XIX 

GENEVIEVE IN SOCIETY 

It was a cold December evening and the wind came sharply 
from the north. A few dim stars shone with a cold, faint light 
in the wintry sky, and fleecy clouds scudded across the moon, 
hanging in mid heaven. An automobile stood before the More- 
land Place, and presently a party of young people came down 
the walk and entered it. First came a tall, fair-haired young 
man, who seemed in the best of spirits; and on his arm leaned 
a girl — tall, straight, and with an air of haughty dignity; behind 
them came another young man, tall and dark. On his brow 
there rested a shadow and he did not join in the gay laughter 
and conversation as did his companion, a fair girl of short 
plump stature. Then came another stately form and by his side 
was the slight, willowy figure of a young girl, fair and beauti- 
ful, with bright smiles wreathing her face, and golden curls 
tossing in the air. 

Slowly the big car started down the avenue, and half an 
hour later, a closed carriage stood in its place, while the driver 
tapped the toe of his boot restlessly, as he waited for the ap- 
proaching figures. 

‘^Drive to No. street, John; and don’t be long, for we are 

now rather late,” said the man, as he took his place beside his 
companion. 

The Carlson mansion was flooded with light and the sound 
of laughter and mirth rang through the spacious drawing-rooms. 
From the music-room there floated out the soft, sweet strains 
of a waltz, and mingled with it, the gentle murmur of voices, 
as the dancers glided almost noiselessly over the floor. 

Willard stood silently watching them, but between him and 
the scene before him, there quivered another picture, that of a 
slender figure bending over an open book. Presently Marie’s 
plump, jewelled hand touched his arm; 


GENEVIEVE IN SOCIETY 


107 


^‘There ! Willard, look ! I suspected it,’’ she said, with a 
piercing little laugh, and looking up, Willard saw Chester Col- 
lins — at whose absence he had wondered — entering the room, 
and with him was Genevieve Layton, looking more beautiful 
than he had ever seen her, he thought. Her brow was white 
and pure; her cheeks were of a seashell pink, and her eyes 
shone with a brilliant light; a faint, sweet smile curved her 
delicate lips. Her dress was of a fine cream voile which hung 
in soft folds about the slender figure. It was a vision of rare 
beauty, sweet, pure, refined, and untarnished by the world. This 
was the same figure he had mentally seen bending over that 
open book, but how different, how different ! 

He started violently and the shadow on his brow deepened 
as he realized the truth. Genevieve had refused him and 
accepted Chester Collins in his stead; accepted her employer 
rather than he who had always been her true friend. She had 
only said, “I think I shall remain at home with my books,” in- 
stead of truthfully saying, “I prefer Chester Collins to you.” 

Her eyes met his — for a moment her smile lingered, then 
faded beneath his cold, calm gaze, her eyes fell and her thin 
cheek paled. 

“Would you like to see the flowers?” Willard asked, turning 
abruptly to Marie. 

“Most assuredly, I shall be delighted,” she answered. 

Lillian and Llewellyn were as much surprised as Willard, 
and they stood speechless as Genevieve entered the room. They 
saw Willard start, saw her eyes meet his, and as he and Marie 
started for the conservatory, Lillian turned to Llewellyn. 

“Genevieve! Genevieve here, after so earnestly refusing? 
What can it mean?” 

The music stopped and Wilma moved close to Lillian’s side. 

“There, Lillian, that is the girl you have so kindly be- 
friended, at whose feet you and Willard have lain everything — 
love, admiration and devotion unlimited — and upon which she 
has so lovingly trampled. With Chester Collins, she is so far 
above you— you her most devoted servants. Perhaps Willard 
will beware of her hereafter and listen more to my advice.” As 
she spoke, she nodded carelessly toward Genevieve, about whom 
a little group of admirers had gathered; and, as Lillian did not 
answer her whispered remarks, she moved on. 


108 


ROSELIN 


“Do you know the young lady with Mr. Collins, Miss Ailing- 
ton?*' asked a richly dressed lady, as Wilma passed. 

“I happen to know who she is, yes,” she replied. 

“A very beautiful girl; a relative of his, I presume?” 

“Oh, no, indeed!” laughed Wilma. “She is only his office 
girl, and her name is Layton, I believe.” Luckily for Wilma, 
none of Genevieve’s acquaintances heard the remark. 

“Possible I” exclaimed the lady, looking questioningly at 
Wilma, who nodded and said : “I assure you, it is true ; she is 
only an office girl.” 

Wilma left her, and the richly dressed lady turned her scru- 
tinizing gaze upon Genevieve, in whose appearance she could 
now find more than one defect. The moment before, the sup- 
posed relative of Chester Collins had been perfect, but now she 
was only his employee and many were the remarks concern- 
ing his marked attention to her. 

“Mr. Collins seems quite devoted to Genevieve, doesn’t he?” 
said Lillian, as she watched him bending over Genevieve’s chair 
with an air of a .lover rather than that of an employer. “I’m 
so glad she came after all, for she can not fail to enjoy the 
party. It is so nice of him to think of her; but I am sure Wil- 
lard is thinking of her, too,” she added, as she and Llewellyn 
started toward the conservatory. They passed close to Gene- 
vieve, and Lillian stopped. 

“I am glad you came, Genevieve; but why didn’t you tell 
us?” There was a peculiar emphasis on the last word and 
Genevieve’s cheek flushed as she turned to Mr. Collins. 

“Mr. Collins will tell you, Lillian, that I refused until to- 
day,” she said. 

“Yes, Miss Genevieve prefers books above everything, and 
this is the first time she has been kind enough to give them up, 
even when I asked it.” Mr. Collins laughed merrily; and Lil- 
lian left them with a promise to go to Genevieve’s room the 
next evening. 

Genevieve felt relieved. Half the load was lifted; Lillian, 
at least, was not angry with her, and Willard would not be 
when she explained. Lillian would help him to forgive and for- 
get, she thought, and her face brightened, her smile became 
sweeter, and Chester Collins noticed more than one turn to look 
at the beautiful girl. 


GENEVIEVE IN SOCIETY 


109 


‘‘Do you like flowers?’^ he asked, as their hostess left them 
to show one of her guests the conservatory. 

“I like nothing better I” Genevieve exclaimed, with delight; 
and he silently led her away to the conservatory. 

The electric lights shone down with a silvery brightness; a 
fragrant perfume filled the air; the tinkling music of fountains 
mingled beautifully with the faint sweet strains from the music- 
room, and its silvery spray could be seen sparkling among crim- 
son and white blossoms. They were surrounded by palms from 
foreign lands, blossoming shrubs and wonderful flowers. Gene- 
vieve eagerly drank in the beauty surrounding her, and her 
companion watched her admiringly as she stooped to caress 
some pale, fragrant blossom, or stood in awe beneath a stately 
palm that stretched its green branches heavenward. It was like 
an unknown world to her; she had never before seen anything 
so lovely, and she was lost in wonder when the sound of voices 
startled her, and a moment later they came upon Marie, Ade- 
laide and Lillian, seated near a bubbling fountain, with Willard 
and Llewellyn standing near. 

Genevieve’s heart gave one throb of mingled pain and joy; 
then it seemed to stand still. Willard surveyed her with that 
cold, calm gaze, which reminded her so much of Wilma’s (save 
that it lacked the look of envious hatred) then his manner 
changed; bowing courteously, as they came near, he turned to 
Mr. Collins and said: 

“Well, Collins, where have you been all evening? This is 
much more pleasant than dancing, and I’m sure Miss Layton 
will enjoy it more.” Carelessly he pushed a chair toward Gene- 
vieve; and something in his manner puzzled and annoyed her 
exceedingly. Why should he call her Miss Layton? She had 
never before heard it from his lips; but his manner had changed 
so completely — ^perhaps, after all, he did not care. 

Presently Alice and Helen Mandel came for Adelaide and 
her farewell to Genevieve was so full of genuine aflection that 
the latter felt confident that she had gained another friend. 

Then supper was announced and the little group reluctantly 
left the bubbling fountain and joined the others in the dining- 
room. Wilma turned with surprise as she saw them enter— an 
apparently happy group. Her remarks that evening had assured 


110 


ROSELIN 


more than one of the admired and flattered Miss Layton’s low 
origin and her position in life; and now, as she watched her 
beaming face and graceful form, and saw the admiring glances 
bent upon her, her eyes flashed enviously. The marked atten- 
tion paid her by her employer annoyed Wilma far more than she 
would acknowledge, even to herself. 

That evening was to Genevieve a strange mixture of joy and 
bitterness and for an hour, after Mr. Collins left her, she sat 
thinking of all that had passed. She half wished that she had 
kept her promise to Willard and Lillian, and remained at home ; 
yet she was glad she had gone ; glad she had seen a glimpse of 
society; glad that her employers had so highly honored her; 
glad Lillian and Adelaide had been so kind to her; and that 
Marie had even been gracious. But the one great pain was, 
‘‘After all, is Willard only glad that I refused?” 

The next evening she left the office an hour earlier than usual 
and hurried to her room with the jubilant hope of seeing 
Lillian. 

“Oh! Lillian, I am so sorry if I have offended you,” she be- 
gan, as Lillian at last appeared. 

“You are mistaken, Genevieve, I am not offended, but it is 
only natural that I should feel pained for my brother,” she re- 
plied, as they seated themselves upon the sofa ; then Genevieve 
told her how she had refused both Willard’s and her employer’s 
urgent requests to attend the party, and how at last she could 
not refuse the kind offer of Mr. Collins, and ended by saying: 

“Willard didn’t seem to mind, though, and I’m glad he isn’t 
offended.” 

“He feels it more than you think, Genevieve, but you will 
tell him how it was, won’t you?” 

“Certainly I shall explain,” was Genevieve’s answer. 

That evening after Lillian had left her, she wrote a note 
and went with it to Willard’s room. No one answered her 
knock, and as the door stood partly ajar, she pushed it open and 
slipped the corner of the envelope beneath a book, which lay on 
the table within reach. As she turned back down the hall she 
heard a door open and in her mind there wasn’t a shadow of a 
doubt but that it was Willard coming from his sister’s room, 
and that in another moment he would have her note safely in 


GENEVIEVE IN SOCIETY 


111 


his hands; so she did not glance back. But it was not Willard 
who stood in the hall watching her as she returned to her room. 
It was Marie Carrelton and as the sound of Genevieve’s foot- 
steps died away, she turned slowly and moved toward Willard’s 
room. 

He had promised her the book he had been reading, and but 
an hour before had told her he had left it on the table in his 
room. She opened the door and going to the small bookcase 
she looked over some other books before she took up the one 
on the table. It was with evident surprise that she turned over 
the envelope, whose edge lay beneath it. She had wondered 
where Genevieve had been, and now in an instant she recognized 
the handwriting. She had seen it before on notes which some- 
times came to Lillian. She saw vividly before her Genevieve’s 
beaming young face, her dark, sparkling eyes, her shining hair 
and her blithe, graceful figure, and her heart throbbed with 
jealousy, envy and hatred; and hastily slipping the letter be- 
tween the pages of the book, she turned back with a resolute 
step. Her brow was contracted and her hands clenched ner- 
vously as she entered her room, turned the key in the door and 
sat down on the hearth rug to read that stolen note. 

“Willard : — Will you kindly forgive me for going last night, 
after telling you so firmly that I would not leave my books? 
For believe me, Willard, I did not intend to go until yesterday, 
when Mr. Carlson and Mr. Collins most earnestly requested me 
to attend, and they being my employers, I could not refuse. I 
knew then that you were to take Miss Carrelton, so it was use- 
less to explain. But I do so now, and most sincerely hope that 
you will not think I did it intentionally. 

“As ever, your friend, 
“Genevieve Layton.” 

Slowly she read it through, then with a sudden motion tore 
it into shreds, and tossing it into the open grate, sat dreamily 
watching it as bright flames flickered up over it and blue curling 
smoke rose and disappeared ; then springing up, she exclaimed : 
“There ! vanished forever, and Willard shall never know ! No 
one can suspect me;” and with a satisfied smile, she went back 
to Wilma and Lillian, never for a moment regretting what she 
had done. And as the days passed she watched with interest 


112 


ROSELIN 


Willard’s manner when Genevieve was mentioned and she knew 
that between them there existed the coldness which even Lil- 
lian’s loving nature could not span. 

One evening Lillian entered her brother’s room and found 
him reclining in an easy chair, his feet on the sofa and a cigar 
between his lips. 

“Have you seen Genevieve since the party?” she asked, seat- 
ing herself on the sofa. 

“No, I haven’t,” was the somewhat sharp reply. 

“And you don’t care to, it seems,” retorted his sister. 

“Under the circumstances, no!” 

“But when you know just how it was, Willard ” she be- 

gan, but he interrupted her. 

“Hang it, Lillian, you needn’t mind making excuses for her !” 
he said. 

“I’m only going to tell you why she went with Mr. Collins,” 

“Well, cut it out, let Genevieve explain her own affairs.” 

“But, Willard, listen.” 

“No! I do not care to hear; I know she refused me and 
accepted Chester. Isn’t that enough?” 

“Enough? No, not until you know why she did it.” 

“It matters but little why, and if she cares for me to know, 
she is the one to tell me; not you, Lillian,” and he abruptly left 
the room, while Lillian sat staring at his vacant chair in bewil- 
derment. 

Again and again she broached the subject, always with the 
same result. 

Day after day, Genevieve looked for some answering token 
of forgiveness, but none came. The Allingtons departed for 
Roselin several days before Christmas, and when Lillian came 
to say good-bye, there was no word, no message, from Willard. 

“Have you explained to Willard, Genevieve?” she asked, and 
Genevieve only answered, “Yes.” 

There was no other mention made of him and, with the hope 
of seeing her at Roselin soon, Lillian left her, and Genevieve 
burst into tears. A sudden longing to be home once more came 
over her, and the days that followed were long and dull; but 
each brought with it the assurance that it was one day nearer 
Christmas, when she could be at home once more — in the dear 


GENEVIEVE IN SOCIETY 


113 


little brown cottage with mother and brother. At last the day 
came and Genevieve, with a light heart and smiling face, re- 
ceived the “Best Christmas Wishes'’ from her employers and 
left the office with a buoyant step. 

Her vacation was very short and she spent all her time at 
the cottage with her mother and Robert, and Lillian’s fond hope 
that she would come to Roselin vanished. Both Mrs. Allington 
and Grace came to see her and the latter almost smothered her 
with kisses and fond caresses, but she saw neither Wilma nor 
Willard. 

After the holidays, time passed with the same dull monotony; 
from morning until night it was school-room and office, kind 
words and advice from her employers, but never a word from 
Willard. 


8 


114 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XX 

A NIGHT AT THE CLUB 

The night was cold and dark; a mist came steadily from the 
east, hanging like a heavy cloud over the city and dimming the 
lights, which strove in vain to send their rays through the 
dense darkness. Even the windows of the Rockford Club 
Room, where a number of young men were spending the even- 
ing, only glowed in a dim, yellow, blurred way; while within, 
the brilliant light of chandeliers shone upon the polished tops 
of mahogany tables, about which groups of the company were 
gathered. The clatter of silver and china sounded through the 
room as plates were removed, then upon each polished ma- 
hogany top there sparkled a dozen cut glass goblets, together 
with bottles of delicate hued wine. Simultaneously, two chairs 
were slipped back, and, with a look of reproval, Llewellyn Grey- 
more and Willard Allington refused the sparkling beverage set 
before them. Several times before, Llewellyn and Willard had 
been invited to the club with these young men — boys belonging 
to the best families of Baltimore — but this was the first time 
wine had been served; and the lines about Llewellyn’s mouth 
and nostrils deepened, and the rosy color of his cheek paled as 
one of the boys held his glass toward him and in a daring tone 
said, “Come on, Greymore! you don’t refuse.” 

The bantering tones continued, as glass after glass was filled 
and refilled; but Llewellyn and Willard did not waver. 

“Believe what I say, Worthen ; I’ll never touch it,” Llewellyn 
declared with emphasis, as Leon Worthen urged him further 
than the others. 

Willard, perhaps, might have wavered in his strong resolu- 
tions, had he been alone to refuse the ruby liquor, but with one 
of Llewellyn’s resolute character to stand before him, to shield 
him from their sneering remarks, he could refuse as firmly as 
his companion. Willard’s father, it is true, belonged to that 
class of society in which the wine-glass is often seen, but he had 


A NIGHT AT THE CLUB 


115 


learned the lesson of total abstinence, and this he had tried to 
teach his son, who on this occasion proved worthy of those 
teachings; and from a remote corner of the room — to which 
they had withdrawn — the two looked on in horror and disgust, 
hoping — but alas, in vain — that each glass would be the last. 

“Enough of this, Allington;” and Llewellyn turned to him 
with a look of mingled contempt and pity for the group before 
them, some half dozen of whom were already swaying in their 
chairs. Willard’s lips moved in reply but the words were in- 
audible, for just at that moment there was a crash of glass; 
slivers flew through the air and a stream of rosy wine, mingled 
with fragments of the broken glass, flowed over the table and 
in a stream fell upon the polished floor. Immediately they left 
the room and hurried into the street, where the heavy mist sur- 
rounded them; but they heard the loud boisterous laugh and the 
words that Leon Worthen shouted after them. 

“Ah ! Ha ! Going are you ? — you who wouldn’t touch it. 
Saints you are; Saint Greymore and Saint Allington — how glori- 
ous ; give me another glass, boys, and I’ll be a saint, too. Come 
on, you, Lockhart; I’m going now, if you want a ride behind 
my bay ; round past the west end if you like.” 

The loud laugh died away; the last faint glow of light from 
the windows disappeared ; yet neither spoke. There was no 
sound to break the silence of the streets, for very few ventured 
out on that cold January night, where the falling mist was fast 
covering the pavements with a sheet of ice, and a chill damp- 
ness settling over all. They were almost home when the clock 
tolled out over the city, the midnight hour; then they stopped to 
listen, for as the last note died away, they heard in the distance 
the sound of voices. 

“That’s Worthen,” whispered Willard, as, with an oath, a 
loud voice rang out: “Whoa, here, Bester, not so fast, I say;” 
then the clatter of horses’ hoofs, and the whir of wheels on the 
icy pavements came nearer, mingled with the loud voices of the 
driver and his companion. It was quite evident that Bester was 
beyond the control of the struggling Worthen, who tried in vain 
to stop him; the animal rushed on, turning so swiftly at the 
corners that the occupants of the vehicle were almost thrown 
from the seat, then dashing on down the avenue. 


116 


ROSELIN 


Llewellyn and Willard stood breathless as they came near, 
and when they dashed beneath the glow of the electric light, 
they saw Leon Worthen, weak and exhausted, lean heavily 
against his companion, who seemed now to be in a drunken 
stupor; while his hands relaxed their grasp. Bester made a 
mad plunge forward, out of the glaring light into the darkness. 

In an instant Llewellyn grasped the situation, and eagerly 
springing forward, he grasped the bit of the steed; Willard 
pressed close behind, and in an instant his hand, too, would have 
been upon the rein; Bester struggled forward; the ice slipped 
beneath his shod hoof, and with a mighty force he fell to the 
pavement, crushing Llewellyn beneath him. 

Willard’s heart sank within him ; he was alone — alone to res- 
cue his friend and perhaps carry him home dead — dead ! That 
word seemed frozen on his lips as he murmured it, and a chill, 
desolate feeling crept over him. Quickly grasping the struggling 
Bester’s rein, he helped him to his feet, then threw his whole 
weight against the bit to keep the spirited animal from making 
another dash forward. He could see the dark figure of Llew- 
ellyn, dimly outlined against the ice-covered pavement, motion- 
less and still ; not a sound could be heard save the craunching 
of Bester’s bits, the striking of his hoofs upon the pavement, 
and the crushing of ice beneath the wheels. * Willard called 
loudly for help and moved nearer Llewellyn’s side. He could 
see the white upturned face now, with the blood trickling from 
beneath the damp, brown hair and fast crimsoning the white 
brow; and now a low moan came tremulously from the white, 
quivering lips ; it was just audible ; the lips closed ; there was 
no other sound, no movement. 

“Heavens! Llewellyn, I fear ’tis done!” fell sadly from Wil- 
lard’s lips, as the horse whirled suddenly to the left, but he still 
clung to the rein. 

Again he called for help, and a moment later he heard hur- 
ried footsteps and saw by the glare of that same electric light, 
swaying over the street in the distance, two night-watchmen 
coming toward him. At that moment, Worthen roused from his 
exhausted sleep and, stumbling from the vehicle, staggered for- 
ward. 


A NIGHT AT THE CLUB 


117 


“Wh-wh-at has ha-hap-pened?'' he stammered. Willard made 
him no reply; but giving Bester’s rein into the hands of one of 
the policemen, he rushed to the dark figure still lying motion- 
less upon the pavement, and bending down beside it, he took the 
cold limp hand in his — the hand that had fallen so suddenly 
from the bridle but a moment since. The slow faint throb of 
the pulse assured him that there was still life; but how long 
would it last — how long? Slowly wiping the blood from temple 
and brow, Willard watched the policeman, who, kneeling on the 
other side of the prostrate form, felt for some signs of life. 

^T can’t tell that he is breathing, but there is a weak throb- 
bing of the heart, which may cease before we reach his home,” 
he said, as he felt, rather than saw, Willard’s dark eyes fastened 
upon him. “We must hurry,” he added. 

Leon Worthen now fully realized what had happened, and 
as they carried away the almost lifeless form, he peered after 
them through the darkness, with great glittering eyes, then 
slowly returned to Bester, who was fully under the control of 
the big fellow who held him. Lockhart was still in the drunken 
stupor; and thus they left him at his father’s home, where his 
mother wept over him the remainder of the night; and it was 
with a look of shame that Leon Worthen left the watchman 
who had guided the vicious Bester so quietly to his gate. 

* 4s * * 

Lillian had been with Genevieve that evening, and had re- 
turned to her room quite late. Wilma had long been asleep, 
and soon Lillian’s golden head was beside hers. For awhile she 
could not sleep, but tossed restlessly upon her pillow, and when 
at last she had fallen into a sweet, peaceful slumber, the loud 
shout of voices roused her, and raising her head from the pil- 
low, she listened. The sound continued; and silently slipping 
from her bed, she raised the window and leaned out. 

The cold, damp air rushed in ; she drew a shawl close about 
her, straining her ears to catch every sound. She heard the 
clatter of horses’ hoofs ; she heard the wild voice of the driver, 
but only the darkness met her view. Everything was dark, save 
where the street-light shone with a dazzling brightness; dimmed 
only by the drizzling rain which fell between it and the More- 
land Place. 


118 


ROSELIN 


A block further on, another light shone faintly, but the 
voices were still in the distance. Lillian little dreamed of the 
two figures standing near that light, just in the shadow, listen- 
ing to the same voices which had awakened her. The loud 
shout of “Whoa, Bester !’’ ceased ; the sound of hoofs and wheels 
sounded near that distant light, then all was silent. Lillian 
shrank back into the darkness of the room. Only a moment, 
and the silence was broken. “Help ! Help rang through the 
silent street. Quickly Lillian’s hands were clasped together; her 
lips parted, and her breath stopped as she again leaned for- 
ward. There was a longer silence ; then again came the call for 
help — loud and clear. Lillian still knelt by the window, and as 
that last call for help floated in, her head sank upon the sill, 
and she uttered a low cry of horror. Could it be — ah ! was it her 
brother’s voice calling for help at that midnight hour? 

For a moment she remained motionless, almost paralyzed by 
the dreadful fear which seized her; then she sprang to her 
feet and again she listened. Again there came the sound of 
voices; she could not catch the words, but she knew from the 
tones that help had come, and a momentary prayer for the 
safety of her brother poured from her heart and trembled on 
her lips. She turned from the window and groped her way to 
her sister’s side. 

“Wilma, Wilma!” she whispered, laying her hand on her 
arm and gently shaking her. “Did you not hear those cries for 
help? Was it not Willard’s voice?” 

“I’ve heard nothing, Lillian; don’t be silly. Why should it 
be Willard? Some fellow drunk, I dare say. Willard came in 
from the club some time ago, I think.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Wilma did not answer, and hastily slipping on her dress- 
ing gown, Lillian left the room. 

“I shall not sleep until I know,” she murmured, as she ran 
down the dimly lighted hall, toward Willard’s room. The 
door was unlocked and pushing it open, she gazed in; there 
was no one there. She was hurrying back through the hall, 
when the sound of the door in the hall below startled her, 
and breathlessly she crept to the head of the stairs, where she 
sank down upon the carpet, listening and watching. 


A NIGHT AT THE CLUB 


119 


There was the sound of footsteps approaching the stairs 
and a moment later the policeman and Willard appeared, carry- 
ing the motionless form of Llewellyn Greymore. Slowly they 
ascended the stairs. Neither saw Lillian on the landing, her 
hands clasping the railing, and her face as white, almost, as 
the one resting on her brother’s arm. Her breath came quick 
and fast, and leaning forward she gasped: 

“What has happened? Oh, Willard, what has happened?” 
The blue eyes looked almost black as they turned from 
Llewellyn’s face and gazed into Willard’s. 

“Lillian !” came quickly from his lips, as he saw the figure 
clad in the pink dressing-gown, now standing a few steps above 
them. 

“Tell me what has happened 1” she repeated, and in a few 
words he told her. 

Then the doctor, accompanied by Mrs. North, came up be- 
hind them, and Lillian fled to Llewellyn’s* room, threw open 
the door, turned on the light, and stood by in silence as they 
placed the death-like figure upon the bed. The doctor, with a 
grave face, bent over it. After a hasty examination he shook 
his head and in answer to Willard’s inquiry, said: 

“He may live. Quite fortunately there are no broken bones, 
but he has received a severe blow on the back of the head and 
here.” He pushed back the heavy hair and touched a deep 
gash, as he finished. 

Lillian moved to Llewellyn’s side and bending over him, 
gently wiped the drops of blood from his forehead, while the 
doctor prepared medicine and bandages. Presently the long, 
dark lashes, laying against the pale cheeks, raised ; the big, 
brown eyes opened and rested on the face above. A look of 
recognition made its transient passage across his face ; the 
eyes closed; he turned wearily on his pillow and was again 
unconscious. But the death-like stupor had passed ; he no longer 
lay still and motionless, but tossed from side to side, murmur- 
ing to himself and occasionally gazing about him with wild, un- 
natural eyes. 

The dim light of day was stealing into the room, before 
Lillian left the bedside and went down the hall, at the further 
end of which was Genevieve’s room. The face which greeted 


120 


ROSELIN 


her was as fresh as a half-blown rose, but the smile which 
brightened it, faded as Lillian came in, pale and worn. Gene- 
vieve’s manner was kind and loving as she placed her in a 
chair and said: 

*‘You look as though you had been out all night, Lillian; 
where have you been, and why up so early?” 

‘‘Up so late, you mean. I have scarcely been asleep since 
I left you, Genevieve. Mrs. North and I have been with 
Llewellyn all night.” Then she repeated the story of the acci- 
dent, and the expression of astonishment written on Gene- 
vieve’s face gradually changed to one of sympathy. 

“The doctor has just been in again,” Lillian continued, 
“and he says there’s so much sickness now, that he hasn’t 
succeeded in finding a nurse; and Llewellyn is sadly in need of 
one, for a fever has set in now, and Dr. Dallas says if he 
lives, it will be a long time before he is well again. But there 
is little hope.” Her voice sank low and tears shone in 
her eyes as she went on. “He is Willard’s best friend, and I 
shall do all for him I can. I wish I were more experienced.” 

“A dear little nurse you would make, Lillian. I wish I 
could stay with you; you are all worn out now.” Genevieve 
knelt beside the chair and pressed Lillian’s head against her 
shoulder. For awhile they remained silent, then Lillian said : 

“I’m keeping you from your work, Genevieve; I won’t 
bother you longer.” 

“Are you going back to Llewellyn, and may I go with yon?” 
Genevieve asked. 

“Yes, come if you have time, Genevieve; then I am going to 
Wilma.” 

The room was quiet when they entered, save for the cease- 
less murmur of inaudible words, and the restless turning, as 
Llewellyn tossed from side to side. Willard sat by the bed, 
his head bowed on his hand. He raised his face at the sound 
of their footsteps, but Genevieve did not see him ; her eyes 
were fastened upon the white face on the pillow, the mass of 
thick tangled hair, the snow-white bandage upon the brow, 
and the wild glittering eyes. How sad — how sad the change ! 
Only the evening before she had heard his merry whistle in 
the hall and watched his stately figure descend the stairs. The 


4 NIGHT AT THE CLUB 


121 


murmuring ceased, and he gazed steadily at them as they came 
near. They could hear the heavy breathing, and, with a sigh, 
Genevieve turned away. Willard stood near her and, as she 
turned, their eyes met. 

“Where have you been keeping yourself of late, Genevieve? 
I never see you,” he said, coming up to her and taking her 
hand. 

“At the office and school mostly,” she replied. 

“Do you know, this winter has not been exactly what I 
pictured it to myself, when you said you were coming to Balti- 
more, Genevieve.” 

“Hasn’t it? I should like to see your picture on canvas,” 
she returned lightly. 

Willard had spent much of his time at painting. He had 
made several magnificent paintings and the teacher with whom 
he did his work had once remarked to a friend: “Some day you 
may hear the name Allington mentioned among the artists of 
the world and now, as Willard released Genevieve’s hand 
and held the door open for her, he replied : 

“Some time, perhaps, I’ll paint it and your wish shall be 
gratified;” then, as Lillian and Genevieve disappeared down the 
hall, he resumed his former position at the bedside of his 
friend. 


122 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXI 

THE FEVER 

Chicago, Jan. 28, 19 — . 

“To Willard Allington; No. , Moreland Place, Baltimore 

Md. 

Mrs. Greymore very ill. Can’t come. Save no expense. 
Wire me daily. Windford Greymore.” 

Willard took this telegram from the messenger boy’s hand 
and read the answer to the message he had sent General Grey- 
more, telling him of the accident and of his son’s immediate 
danger. 

“Can’t come !” he repeated, looking at his watch ; then he 
poured into a glass a spoonful of the medicine on the table 
and turned to Llewellyn who, with neither father nor mother, 
not even a nurse to care for him, lay murmuring of home and 
friends. 

“School or no school, Lillian and I shall stay by you, Grey- 
more,” Willard said, bending over him and raising the glass to 
his lips. He felt that the weight of responsibility rested upon 
him and he resolved, if necessary, to stay by his friend until 
the end. 

All day he and his sister, who soon returned to the room, 
kept watch over Llewellyn. The fever raged and his quiet 
murmurings changed to delirious ravings, which only the sound 
of Lillian’s voice or the gentle touch of her hands could quiet. 
Both Wilma and Marie came to offer assistance, but their 
presence only tended to increase his excitement and it was 
with an effort that Willard kept him on his pillow; so it was 
Lillian who was left alone with Willard to care for him — with 
now and then Mrs. North to assist them. Late in the after- 
noon, Dr. Dallas came, finding Lillian alone by the bedside. 

“I have succeeded in finding a nurse who will take the case 
tomorrow,” he said; “but I see you have great influence over 
your patient. Miss Allington, and I think you will do as well — 
perhaps better — for the present, than one more experienced. I 


THE FEVER 


123 


think there will be no change tonight, only keep him as quiet 
as possible and give the medicine as directed. 

After he was gone, Lillian buried her face in the pillows 
beside Llewellyn and choked back the sobs as she thought, “An- 
other night; oh, how can I bear it!” Her head ached dread- 
fully and she felt faint at the thought of watching another 
night at the bedside, but it was her duty; she alone could 
quiet those delirious ravings and she must stay. Llewellyn was 
quiet now, and a long time she sat with her face among the 
pillows ; then a soft step aroused her and rising, she saw 
Genevieve bending over her. 

“Why, Genevieve, why are you home so early?” she asked. 

“It wasn’t a very busy day at the office and I thought I 
could help you here; so Mr. Collins excused me and here I 
am, at your service,” Genevieve explained. 

“Oh, I’m so glad you came 1” exclaimed Lillian. 

Half an hour later when Willard entered the room, he found 
Genevieve seated near Llewellyn, gently pushing the brown hair 
back from the hot, bandaged brow, while Lillian lay peacefully 
sleeping in the big Morris chair by the window. 

“Well!” he exclaimed, drawing a chair near the bed; “Grey- 
more has many willing nurses, I see. Marie and Wilma are 
longing to assist us, but he doesn’t want them to come near. 
There have been dozens of people here today, wanting to see 
him, but the doctor hasn’t admitted anyone; and now I find you 
soothing him almost as well as Lillian.” 

Genevieve did not answer and after a moment he added: 
“I wonder if people would be so kind if it were I instead of 
Llewellyn.” 

“I am sure I would do my part for you, just the same as 
I do for Llewellyn, if it were needed,” Genevieve answered, 
as she continued smoothing the tangled, brown locks. 

“But if it were I, it would not be needed, I presume.” 

Genevieve longed to rush from the room and leave him to 
himself. He had spoken to her that morning, for the first 
time since the Carlson party. That was the only time she had 
seen him. Now as she thought of that unanswered note, a 
glow of pride came to her cheek and she sat straight in her 
chair. 


ROSELIN 


124 


“Will you kindly explain what you mean, Willard?*^ 

“If you do not understand, I shall not explain.’^ His tone 
insinuated much, and with a sudden impulse she exclaimed: 

“Then tell me, why has my note remained unanswered?” 

“Your note to me?” he asked. She nodded stiffly in the 
affirmative and he continued: “Then so far as I know, that 
unanswered note is yet unwritten.” 

“It is not unwritten and you know it!” she declared. He 
rose and came toward her, attempting to take her hand. 

“Pardon me, Genevieve ; but if you have ever written me a 
note, it has not been received,” he said; and the cold look 
of indifference vanished. 

“Do not try to deceive me, Willard; I took it to your room 
myself.” 

“Nevertheless, Genevieve, I have not found it.” 

She looked at him in astonishment, but his manner was 
so changed she could not doubt him. 

“Will you tell me what was in that note?” he asked, and 
in a few words she told him why she had refused him and 
accepted his friend and her employer, Chester Collins. 

“Will you forgive me, Willard?” she asked, when she had 
finished, for he made no reply. 

“Yes, yes, Genevieve! If you can forgive me for not 
listening to Lillian, when she tried to explain to me, and for 
refusing Llewellyn's advice. He said that you, no doubt, would 
tell me why you did it, but I would give you no opportunity. 

Forgive me, Genevieve, and I can surely forgive you.” 

Genevieve’s heart gave one joyful bound as she thought 
“forgiven at last,” and Willard, looking down into her face, saw 
that it was only with an effort that she kept back the tears. 

“It has caused me pain and disappointment, Genevieve, and 
I think it has you, too, so let us forget the whole horrid sub- 
ject,” he said. “Where that letter is I cannot say, but it does 

not matter, now that I know its contents. 

A knock at the door interrupted them, and the maid an- 
nounced a man wishing to see Mr. Allington. A moment later 
Willard returned with a tall, thin fellow whose elegant dress 
denoted wealth, but in whose appearance there was something 
Genevieve did not like. With only a glance at her, he followed 


THE FEVER 


125 


Willard to the bedside. His thin cheek paled, and into the 
large, dark eyes, there stole a look of shame and fear as he 
stood looking down upon Llewellyn. 

The twilight was gathering over the city and gradually 
creeping into the room. It hung with a fast fading light over 
the bed where Llewellyn lay, now tossing wearily, and over the 
figures near him ; then faded into a deep shadow. 

“The best, most generous fellow I ever saw, and now, if 

he should die! But for Greymore and yourself, Allington, I 

He broke off abruptly and turned to Willard, who answered: 
“I know, Worthen, but he may live.” 

He made no reply, but turned to the window, where the 
fading light still lingered and where Lillian still lay sleeping. 
Presently she awoke and moved slowly toward the bed, while 
her eyes rested reproachfully upon Leon Worthen, who a mo- 
ment later left the room. 

Although Lillian felt much refreshed, Genevieve insisted 
upon staying with Llewellyn for awhile, that Lillian might rest, 
and at last she left them and went to Genevieve’s room. It 
was almost midnight when she came back to the sickroom, 
where a shaded lamp was dimly burning, and where Llewellyn 
talked continually of father, mother, home and friends. Oc- 
casionally they could catch their own names, strangely mingled 
with others; then again he seemed to be at the club and his 
excitement increased as he talked of Worthen, Lockhart and 
Bester. 

As Genevieve turned from the room, Lillian looked after 
her, then bent lower over Llewellyn’s pillow, attempting to quiet 
him. As the doctor had said, there was no change that night, 
and when in the morning the nurse came, she examined her 
patient with an air of a professional, then said to Lillian, who 
stood watching her: 

“This is a very bad case. Is he your brother?” 

**A very dear friend of my brother,” Lillian answered, then 
looking up into the kind face of the nurse — a tall, strong woman 
of middle age — she added : “If there is anything I can do to 
help you, at any time. Miss Klive, please call me.” 

“Very well, if I need you, I shall call,” Miss Klive answered, 
and silently Lillian left her. 


126 


ROSELIN 


Days passed; almost day and night Miss Klive sat by the 
bedside and frequently either Lillian, Genevieve or Willard were 
with her, while occasionally the former was called from her 
studies to quiet his excited ravings. Then there came a change ; 
he fell into a deep slumber from which he could not be aroused. 
Even Lillian’s voice, whose quiet, persuasive tones he had 
obeyed from the first, could not awaken him. The dark Angel 
of Death hovered over the white, motionless form, and it seemed 
that every moment would bear away the soul, which clung so 
weakly to the exhausted body. His life hung as a slender 
thread, which only a breath might carry away into eternity. 

Shortly after the accident, Willard had received a draft for 
eight hundred dollars from General Greymore, and a letter 
imploring him to see that everything was done for his son, 
which would add to his comfort or give some hopes of re- 
covery; and this Willard had done. Each day a telegram went 
to the general, and now, while Llewellyn lay in the Valley of 
the Shadow of Death, there came a message, telling of the death 
of Mrs. Greymore, and as doctor, nurse and friends moved 
silently through the room, they felt that it would only be a 
short time till mother and son would be together in the Great 
Beyond. 

Only slow, faint breaths floated past the white, parted lips 
as the night wore on. The physician could just feel the faint throb 
of the pulse which seemed to grow weaker with every heart 
beat. The nurse sat silently watching the thin, pallid face and 
by her side stood Lillian. Mrs. North, Willard and Genevieve, 
too, were there, silently waiting for the crisis which would 
surely come tonight — life or death. College friends, classmates, 
Wilma, Adelaide, Marie and Louis Mandel, had been admitted 
that day and they had left the room with tear-dimmed eyes, 
as they thought that the next time they looked upon that face, 
which but little over a week ago had been so full of life and 
bloom, it might be wrapped in death. 

Now Lillian’s face was pale and her blue eyes were dark 
with anxiety. She could hear Genevieve’s breath — quick and 
fast — as she pressed close to her, with one arm around her 
waist. Willard stood by the window, almost breathless. Silence 
had fallen over the city. Hardly a sound broke the stillness of 


THE FEVER 


127 


the room, until at last, the doctor spoke, slowly, but earnestly: 
“He will live. The fever is broken.’’ Lillian leaned eagerly 
forward to catch the words, and an involuntary exclamation of 
thankfulness came — almost inaudibly — from her lips. Willard 
turned and silently gazed out over the sleeping city, while Gene- 
vieve only pressed closer to Lillian and whispered: “He will 
live.” 

It was late in the afternoon of the next day, when Llewellyn, 
so weak that he could scarcely turn his head on the pillow, 
opened his eyes and looked about him. For a moment he thought 
he was alone, everything was so still, then his eyes fell upon a 
figure by the shaded window — trying to study in the dim light. 
“Lillian,” he murmured, faintly. She started up at the sound 
of his voice and moved toward him. 

“You are much better today, Llewellyn,” she said, bending 
over him ; and his eyes rested questioningly upon her face. 

“Have I been very sick, and how long?” he asked slowly. 

“Yes, for almost two weeks; you are better now though.” 

“Did anyone come to care for me?” was the next ques- 
tion. 

“Your nurse. Miss Klive, has just gone for a walk and I 
promised to stay with you until she returned.” Her answer 
did not seem to satisfy him and she added : “Your mother was 
ill for awhile and your father could not come, but he is com- 
ing soon. You must be quiet now.” 

She laid her hand tenderly on the white one which moved 
feebly toward her ; the eyelids closed wearily and again he 
slept. 


128 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXH 

GRACE GOES TO BALTIMORE 

It was a beautiful day during the second week of February. 
The late afternoon train sped swiftly out of Boston and was 
soon dashing on toward Baltimore. The train boys passed back 
and forth with their baskets of fruit and rolls of daily papers. 
Some of the passengers lounged dreamily in their seats, while 
others read their papers or gazed out upon the flying scenery. 
At each station, others came on until every seat was taken. 

As they at last neared the little river which flows down the 

Ashville valley, a young fellow, who had been dozing over his 
paper, folded it up and threw it carelessly upon the suit-case at 
his feet, pushed his hat back from his forehead and turned to- 
ward the window. He was of medium stature. His black hair 
and eyes added much to the dark, handsome face, and his man- 
ner had in it something of ease and carelessness, which made 

him an attractive personality. One could readily guess that he 
was the son of wealth. As the train stopped and the man 
occupying the seat beside him left the car, he pushed up the 
window and leaned out. Near the automobile at the end of 
the platform, not far from his window, stood a young girl, 
clad in a red traveling suit. Dark, brown curls were tossing 
about her fair face and brow, and for a moment her arms 
were wound lovingly about her mother’s neck ; then she hurried 
toward the car. A moment later the train was moving, and, 
looking toward the entrance, the young man saw her standing 
in the aisle : and silently he motioned her to the only vacant seat 
in the coach — the one beside, him. 

Grace Wilton was at last, after many weeks of anticipation, 
on her way to Baltimore to visit the girls. She had often 
thought of going, and both Genevieve and Lillian had plead 
with Mrs. Allington to let her come, while Wilma had offered 
no remonstrance. 

The train flew on. The young man sat gazing out at the 
window, with now and then a desultory remark as to the 


GRACE GOES TO BALTIMORE 


m 


weather, the crowded coaches, etc. Grace answered him in a 
frank, courteous way, but made no further remarks, and for a 
long time they rode on in silence, while about them was a 
continual stir as passengers left the car and others took their 
places. Grace sat watching those about her but now and then 
she felt the magnetic gaze of the man at her side bend upon 
her, and at last he broke the silence. She had removed her 
gloves, and as his eyes wandered to the little white hands, he 
asked abruptly: “Why do you wear that ring?^’ 

Her eyes fell to the little, golden circlet on her finger, set 
with its single pearl. There was no asking of pardon, no ex- 
cuse for that question, and instantly the thought “a flirt” passed 
through Grace’s mind. For a moment she hesitated, then rais- 
ing her big, brown eyes to his, she replied with emphasis : 

“For no special reason! Why do you ask?” 

“I hadn’t the least idea ; that’s why I asked,” was the an- 
noying reply, as he repressed the smile that for a moment had 
brightened his countenance. She turned from him and looked 
toward the window opposite, and after a moment he added, as 
if speaking more to himself than to her : “So many of the 
young girls now-a-days are wearing wedding rings.” There was 
no answer and he continued : “The girls that aren’t married 
wear rings and try to make people think they are; but the 
married ladies usually leave theirs at home.” 

The frown on Grace’s brow deepened while a look of amuse- 
ment settled upon his and he regarded her in silence. 

“Do you live in Ashville?” he asked presently. She an- 
swered in the affirmative and he went on : “Have you always 
lived there?” 

“For several years ; yes.” 

“Oh, well! you are young yet; you will outgrow Ashville, 
some time,” was the consoling reply, and again he relapsed into 
a silence which Grace had no desire to break. Carelessly he 
brushed the dust from his trousers and, with a restless move- 
ment, turned again to the window. 

“Almost a summer’s day,” he remarked after awhile. 

“Yes, quite!” 

“Will someone meet you at Baltimore?” 

“Yes,” she answered in an unconcerned tone. 


9 


130 


ROSELIN 


“Your sweetheart?” and again she answered “yes,” but her 
face plainly said: “It is none of your business.” Apparently he 
did not notice for he continued : “Oh, these sweethearts ! they 
come in handy sometimes; but I thought perhaps I could help 
you find your number.” 

She fully realized the ludicrousness of his remark and, 
quite unlike Grace, her chin was tossed a bit higher, her brow 
contracted, and she gazed straight ahead. How dared he? He 

had said he was going to , and she never for a moment 

thought he meant what he said, although he assumed an air of 
disappointment when he learned that her friends were to meet 
her, and she knew that her wrath only furnished amusement 
for her tormentor, whose next question was : 

“This sweetheart of yours, I presume, will come for you in 
a farm wagon?” This was asked with a teasing air and a smile 
of amusement, and she only answered : 

“Oh, certainly;” and for a moment the mirth that glistened 
in his eyes was reflected in hers. 

“Do you know this is the best train I have been on for 
some time !” he went on, after a moment’s silence. Apparently 
she was very much interested in some scene at that moment 
and did not answer him; and he added, half to himself: “I sup- 
pose it’s because you are here.” 

“Indeed!” Grace’s lip curled, and she half turned to him, 
as she said it in a sneering tone. 

“I only wish you were going on further than Baltimore,” he 
continued. 

“Indeed I” she retorted again, and she turned from him with 
an air of disgust. 

When she entered the car, she had carried with her a small 
package, which he had kindly placed on his suit-case near the 
window, that she might not be crowded and uncomfortable, 
and as they neared Baltimore, she turned to him with dignity. 

“May I have my package now, please?” 

“Certainly you may,” he replied, with a different tone from 
that he had hitherto used, and he handed her the package with 
a courteous bow. 

“Thank you.” She took it from his hand and began putting 
on her gloves. 


GRACE GOES TO BALTIMORE 


131 


“I am glad I have met you, Miss White,’’ he said, with the 
vain hope that she would correct him as to the name, but she 
did not, and he continued, “and I sincerely hope that we 
shall meet again. Would you mind giving me your name?” he 
ventured. 

“I am very sorry but I have forgotten whether I am White 
or Green,” she replied, with a smile which completely upset 
the young stranger, and, without noticing the card .he took from 
his cardcase, she arose and left him, mentally hoping that his 
wish to meet again would never be fulfilled. 

The lights were on and a noisy crowd moving up and down 
the platform when Grace stepped from the train and looked 
about for some familiar face. There were only strange faces 
and strange forms all round her, and for awhile she stood 
silently, watching each newcomer. 

“Hello, Grace, did you think we had deserted you?” It was 
a voice behind her and turning about she faced Willard. 

“I knew you would come after awhile,” she exclaimed. 

“Genevieve intended to come with me,” he explained; “but 
she had extra work at the office today, and came home all worn 
out with a headache. Llewellyn insisted on keeping Lillian 
with him, so I was left alone to come for you.” By this time 
she was seated beside him in a carriage, rolling away toward 
the Moreland Place. 

Grace was all unconscious of the black eyes which had 
watched her every movement from the car window. The young 
stranger had watched their meeting and now, as the engine puffed 
and hissed and moved slowly out of the busy city, drawing 
behind it its many coaches, he settled back in the seat, won- 
dering what the relationship was between the pretty and at- 
tractive young traveler and the fellow who met her. Was it 
that of brother and sister, or were they, as she had said, 
sweethearts? At the moment, he had caught a note of irony in 
her voice, but now, he half believed she had meant it, and fell 
asleep thinking of that meeting on the platform and, strange 
to say, the faces of Grace Wilton and Willard Allington were 
strangely mingled in his dreams. 


132 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXIII 

GENERAL GREYMORE’S ARRIVAL 

Lillian laid her book down, moved to the window, looked 
out into the street for a moment, then adjusting the shade on 
the light, went back to the bedside and bent low over Llewellyn, 
whom she thought was sleeping, but as he felt her breath 
upon his cheek, he stretched out his hand and took hers. 

*‘Are you tired of my quiet room, Lillian?’’ he whispered. 

She started slightly as his brown eyes opened and rested 
upon her face. '‘No, no, Llewellyn, I am not at all tired. I 
have been studying and thought you were asleep.” She did not 
know he had been watching her while she studied and he only 
smiled weakly and she continued : “Are you tired of your nurse, 
Llewellyn? Shall I call Miss Klive?” 

“Oh, no, please don’t. Sit here, Lillian.” Silently she took 
the chair toward which he feebly motioned her, then both of 
his hands clasped hers. “Perhaps I am keeping you from your 
visitors; did you say that Willard went alone for them?” 

“Yes. It is our sister who is coming to visit us ; and Wil- 
lard went for her alone, as Genevieve could not accompany him. 
They haven’t arrived yet.” 

“Call Miss Klive when you wish to go, Lillian.” For a 
moment he looked upon the fair, young face near him; his 
long white fingers tightened their weak grasp ; his eyelids sank 
wearily, and he was soon asleep. Lillian still sat watching him 
when the door noiselessly opened, and looking up she saw Wil- 
lard standing in the doorway. Grace was with him and came 
hurrying toward her. Llewellyn’s fingers still clasped hers, and 
almost before she could disengage them, Grace’s arms were 
thrown about her and she kissed her heartily. 

“It seems so good to see someone ffoni home, Grace. How 
are you and how is everyone at Roselin?” asked Lillian. 

After answering Lillian’s rapid questions, Grace said : “Both 
Mr. Allington and mamma sent their love to you both, and 
you should hear them worry about the welfare of the young Mr. 


GENERAL GREYMORE^S ARRIVAL 


133 


Greymore you write so much about, to know just how interested 
they are in those you care for/' She hesitated and turned to- 
ward Llewellyn, who looked so white and exhausted while he 
slept that Grace gasped and turned to Lillian. 

^‘Are you sure he will live?" she whispered. 

“Oh, yes, he is out of danger now. Have you seen Gene- 
vieve?" 

“No, I haven’t. We only stopped for a minute with Wilma 
and Miss Carrelton, and then hurried up here to you. I must 
go now and see her, if I may." 

“When you come from Genevieve’s room bring Grace to me, 
Willard, and I will go down with her." Lillian watched her 
brother and Grace as they went down the hall, then softly closed 
the door and again took up her book. 

Presently Llewellyn awoke. “They have been here, have 
they not? I think I heard her voice; a strange, sweet voice it 
was," he murmured, almost dreamily. 

“Willard and Grace you mean? Yes; they were here; they 
have gone to see Genevieve now. I shall go down with Grace, 
when they return, and Willard will stay with you until your 
nurse comes." 

“Yes;" he said, closing his eyes; but this time not to sleep, 
but to think of Lillian’s sister, whose voice, as he had heard 
it, so unlike Lillian’s soft, gentle, persuasive tones, was never- 
theless so unmistakably sweet and thrilling, Lillian and Grace, 
he fancied, were much alike, with the same golden curls, deep 
blue eyes and slight, willowy figure ; and half an hour later 
as Lillian slipped her arm about Grace and drew her close 
to the bedside, he looked at them in surprise. Grace’s dark 
red dress deepened the roses on her cheeks, and her face, 
wreathed with its curls of dark brown, was very different from 
Lillian’s spirituous beauty. 

“This is my sister Grace, Llewellyn," she said simply. 

“I am glad you are so much better, Mr. Greymore," said 
Grace as he took her hand and smiled. 

“I do not wonder that you like him, Lillian," she whispered, 
after they had told Llewellyn good-night and left the room. 

“Who said I liked him?" 

“No one; but I know you do." Grace’s tone implied that 


134 


ROSELIN 


he was more to her than a mere friend and Lillian’s face flushed 
as she answered: 

“I like all of Willard’s friends, Grace, and everyone likes 
Llewellyn; the story of his brave act has been repeatedly read 
in the papers and he has the sympathy of everyone. Mrs. 
Greymore died a short time ago, but he will not know until his 
father arrives, and the doctors fear the effect even then.” 

“Oh! how dreadful, to think he doesn’t know!” Grace ex- 
claimed, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought what if 
it were her own mother, instead of that of Llewellyn Greymore ; 
and instantly her sympathy went out to him as it had done on 
that first day, when Lillian’s letter had told her of the sad 
accident which had almost cost him his life. 

As the days passed, she often went with Lillian or Gene- 
vieve to his room, where Marie and Wilma were now often 
found, and where the latter did her utmost to throw about him 
the halo of her charms; but Llewellyn now looked deeper than 
the brilliant exterior, into the character of the girl, and it was 
always Lillian whom he wished to stay with him, Lillian whom 
he loved to listen to, while she read, talked, or sang to him 
in her soft, sweet voice; Lillian’s fairy figure that brought 
brightness to his lonely room, and it was Lillian who never 
tired. 

“Miss Klive is very kind, but she and Lillian are so differ- 
ent,” he would say to himself, as he reluctantly watched her 
depart for class-rooms and study; and now Grace sometimes 
came and read to him when he was alone. A few days after 
her arrival, she had come to the room with Lillian, and Llewellyn, 
when speaking to her, had said: “What shall I call your sister, 
Lillian?” 

“Oh ! call me Grace, please,” she had exclaimed in her im- 
pulsive way, before Lillian could answer him. From that mo- 
ment he had liked her and often as she read to him, he lay 
watching her face, so full of emotion and attractive sweetness. 
He liked to watch her and Lillian together, and one evening a 
week after her arrival, as he lay back upon several large pillows, 
listening to them while they talked of the party they had at- 
tended the evening before, there was a tap at the door and the 
maid announced General Greymore’s arrival. For several days 


GENERAL GREYMORES ARRIVAL 


135 


they had been expecting him, and now, hastily gathering up her 
books, Lillian arose. 

'‘We will leave you now,’’ she said, but quickly he caught 
her hand and held it fast. "No, you can’t go yet, Lillian.” Be- 
fore she could free it, a tall, broad-shouldered man with iron 
gray hair appeared. There was a sad, mournful expression on 
his face, and as he came forward and clasped his strong arms 
about Llewellyn, she turned away to hide her tears. 

"I am so glad you have come at last, father,” Llewellyn 
exclaimed, his voice trembling with joy and excitement. For 
awhile the older man did not reply but only clasped his son 
more closely to him, and when he at last spoke, his voice shook 
and his words came slowly. 

"I would have been here long ago, my boy, but it was 
impossible — utterly impossible. I am glad you have had such 
good friends to care for you.” 

Llewellyn stretched one hand toward the girls. "Lillian,” 
he said, "I want you to meet my father. Father, this is Miss 
Allington, to whom I owe more than I can tell — my life, per- 
haps.” 

"No! no!” exclaimed Lillian hurriedly, and coming forward 
she put her hand in General Greymore’s and the color in her 
cheeks deepened as the General thanked her for her kindness 
to Llewellyn. 

"And this is Lillian’s sister. Miss Grace, who came to 
Baltimore last week to visit us, father.” 

"I am glad to meet you — very glad to make your acquaintance. 
Miss Grace.” He looked steadily into her face; then his eyes 
went back to Llewellyn’s, with a tender, loving gaze. 

"They tell me mother has been ill. How is she now and 
why didn’t she come with you?” Llewellyn asked, as his eyes 
met those of his father. Instantly General Greymore’s face 
paled and with a gasping breath he turned quickly away. What 
should he say? What should his answer be? He hardly dared 
to tell him the truth, even yet. 

"Llewellyn, we will leave you with your father now,” said 
Lillian, as, with all the color fled from her cheeks, she came 
quickly to his side; then, as she met the imploring gaze of the 
father, she laid her hand tenderly on his arm and added ; 


136 


ROSELIN 


“Remember your condition, Llewellyn, you are very weak and 
must be quiet and not allow yourself to become excited about 
anything.” 

“I cannot very well forget my weakness,” he replied; and 
the shadow on the faces about him gradually stole into his, and 
as Lillian and Grace left the room, he turned to his father, 
who stood with his face half averted. 

“Tell me, father, tell me the truth. Is mother better or is 
she — is she ” He hesitated. 

“Ah ! Llewellyn, canst thou finish it ?” General Greymore’s 
voice was sad; and with white lips he came to Llewellyn and 
took both his hands. “You have guessed the truth, Llewellyn. 
Your mother is now at rest in the Wonderful Eternity, with 
the Father whom she loved and trusted to the end, and whom she 
taught you and me to love.” 

“Tell me all. I would rather hear it now than later,” whis- 
pered Llewellyn, after a silence in which both father and son 
struggled to crush down their emotions. 

His father repeated the particulars of Mrs. Greymore’s ill- 
ness and death and, how at last, her prayer had been for her 
son, that he might remain faithful unto the end; that she 
might be reunited with husband and son in Heaven. 

“I have much to be thankful for,” he said, as he finished ; 
“you have been spared, Llewellyn, and without you, I could not 
have borne this trial. When your mother died, you were very 
near death’s door. The telegrams which came to me carried 
but little hope of recovery, and for awhile the whole world 
seemed dark; I turned in horror from everybody and every- 
thing; then came the telegram from Willard Allington which 
sent a ray of light into the darkness, and I knew that you would 
live. You do not know the joy that came to me through my 
sorrow, and now we will bear it together. Will you always 
feel toward me and think of me as you do now, Llewellyn, my 
son?” 

“Always,” repeated Llewellyn emphatically ; then after a 
pause he continued mournfully: “My whole life has been one 
mystery, father; it has cast a shadow over my whole being, 
for with all of your and mother’s love and kindness, I could 
never quite forget it,” 


GENERAL GREYMORE^S ARRIVAL 


137 


“I know, Llewellyn; I understand.” 

”I have not loved you and mother because I felt it my duty; 
I have loved you always, for yourselves. I could not help it; 
it could never change; and now, that the mystery is suddenly 
crowned by the deepest sorrow of my life, it only deepens my 
love for you. Oh mystery, sorrow and pain !” he exclaimed, bit- 
terly, and with a sudden motion he drew his hands from his 
father’s, turned his face to the wall and buried it in the pillows. 

For a long time there was silence — no movement — no sound 
broke the stillness of the room — only the wind moaned and 
whistled as it swept around the huge building and among 
the boughs of the evergreens. At last General Greymore bent 
over him. The whole horrible truth seemed to be burning 
into his brain and all his father’s efforts to arouse him were in 
vain. Frantically the General rang for a maid, and sent at 
once for Lillian. Llewellyn still lay with his face among the 
pillows, and his father strode up and down the room when she 
came in. 

“I have told him all, Miss Lillian ; he did not seem so ex- 
cited as I had feared, but now — now — see if you can rouse 
him.” A frown of anxiety clouded Mr. Greymore’s brow and 
he leaned his head against the marble mantel, as Lillian knelt 
beside Llewellyn. Softly she called his name — again and again 
she repeated it — yet he did not answer, and at last, as she 
drew his hand from the pillow, her nerves, which had endured 
so much of late, gave way; her head sank upon the hand she 
held and her tears fell, thick and fast. For awhile she wept in 
silence, then Llewellyn, as if suddenly awakened from a deep 
sleep, turned his eyes, bright with unshed tears, upon her. 

“Lillian, Lillian,” he whispered gently, slipping his arm about 
her shoulders. A little thrill of joy shook her slight form as 
she heard his voice, but quickly she collected herself and arose 
to her feet. 

“It is weak of me, I know,” she said, after a moment; 
“but a few years ago my own mother was taken from us, and 
I sympathize most deeply with you.” 

The tears now coursed their way down Llewellyn’s white 
sunken cheeks. “I shall always bless you for all you have 
done for me,” he exclaimed. He caressed her hand and re- 
leased it, 


138 


ROSELIN 


''Shall I call the nurse now, General Greymore?” Lillian 
turned to him with quiet composure, though her face was 
tear-stained and her eyes still dim. The General nodded and 
she hurried from the room. 

A strange feeling, which was entirely new to her, had 
suddenly come over her and, try as she might, she could 
not put it aside. Every nerve trembled with a strange thrill 
of mingled joy and sadness; a strange longing (for what she 
could not tell) filled her heart, and her eyes shone with a 
strange light. As she leaned her burning cheek against the 
window-pane of her room and looked out into the darkness, 
from which the mournful sobs of the wind still emanated, a 
feeling of desolation swept over her. Perhaps had she known 
how passionately Llewellyn had kissed the hand, wet with her 
tears; how, through the sleepless hours of the night, he would 
live over again the moment, when for an instant, his arm had 
been around her, it would have comforted her. But she did 
not know; and with a little shiver she slipped into bed, and 
throwing her arm about the sleeping Grace, she clung to her 
as though she, alone, could comfort her, and thus an hour later 
she fell asleep. 


LLEWELLYN AND LILLIAN 


139 


CHAPTER XXIV 

LLEWELLYN AND LILLIAN 

The sun peeped in at Llewellyn’s window, the following 
morning, finding him weak and exhausted; but as days came 
and went, he began again to improve, and all fear of the re- 
turning fever was dismissed. His father was continually with 
him, ministering to his every want, in the manner of a most 
devoted parent ; and thus relieved, of what she had hitherto 
considered her duty, Lillian shrank from meeting either 
Llewellyn or his father, and very seldom went to the room. 
She knew that the change which had come over her recently 
was in some way connected with her daily association with 
Llewellyn. Before the night of his father’s arrival, she had 
thought of him always, as her brother’s friend — therefore 
hers — nothing more. But now it was different, and, with various 
excuses she kept from the room as much as possible, devoting 
all her time to her studies and to Grace, whose entertainment 
was left entirely to Genevieve and herself. 

Llewellyn listened, with interest, to their plans to make 
Grace’s visit a pleasant one ; then, in silence, he would let 
Lillian go from the room, put aside the selfish wish to keep 
her with him, and look eagerly forward for her return, but 
after Grace had gone back to Roselin he saw no reason why 
she should stay so much from the room. He had improved 
quite rapidly; the old pallor had gradually left his cheeks and 
the former bloom taken its place. He now sat for hours at 
a time in the big leather chair in his room ; and one evening 
when Lillian was alone with him he took her hand as she drew 
his chair nearer to the window. Looking up steadily into her 
face, he said: 

“Lillian, why do you stay away from my room, so much of 
late? I can see no reason now that Grace is gone.” There 
was a note of pain in his voice and she replied: 

“Why, Llewellyn, I come almost every day!” 

“Yes; but you will not stay.” 


140 


ROSELIN 


“I am no longer needed, now that your father is with you.” 

“Needed!” he exclaimed. “If you could know how I have 
missed you, how I have longed to keep you with me, when 
you would not stay, I am sure you would think differently.” She 
made no reply, but busied herself arranging the pillows, and he 
continued: “If you have no engagement for this evening, I shall 
keep you with me. May I have the honor of your company, 
Miss Lillian?” he asked, smilingly. 

She laughed lightly as she sat down near him, and an- 
swered : “I think you may, if you wish it.” 

“You have no other engagement then?” 

“None that will prevent my keeping this one. Marie and 
Wilma are going to the sorority meeting tonight, but I really 
do not care to go.” 

“I cannot ask you to give up the meeting for me, Lillian.” 
A look of disappointment settled on his face but it vanished as 
she replied: 

“You need not, for I shall give it up, just the same ; so 
please don’t try to break the engagement, for, now that I am 
here I shall remain until you are, perhaps, tired of me.” 

“Tired of you I Impossible I Where you are, there is per- 
fect rest for me. You know it, Lillian; you know it,” he re- 
peated, as she began laughing. 

“How can you talk so?” she exclaimed. 

“One must not shrink from the truth ; and that statement 
is nothing more nor less than the truth. I speak from ex- 
perience, you see; s^ it is useless to deny it.” 

“If it is useless, I might as well not attempt. Shall I read 
to you, now?” She turned slowly through the pages of a book 
as she spoke, and apparently her every thought was centered 
in it. 

He sat watching her as she read — head bent, cheeks pink, 
and bright golden curls falling over her white neck. Suddenly 
her eyes were raised to his. “I don’t believe you want me to 
read,” she said, slowly closing the book and placing it on the 
table. Her hands settled down in her lap, dimly outlined against 
her soft white dress, and the delicate color of her cheeks 
deepened beneath his long, tender gaze. In silence he adjusted 
the shade over the electric bulb. The light streamed to the 


LLEWELLYN AND LILLIAN 


141 


opposite side of the room; and they sat in the shadow. Quickly 
leaning forward, he drew her chair to the side of his, into 
the flood of moonlight coming through the window. 

“I always enjoy listening to you, Lillian, but somehow 
tonight I have not heard a word; I only knew that it was 
your voice to which I was listening; your face I was looking 
upon. I would rather sit here in the moonlight with you.” He 
leaned eagerly toward her. “Will you listen to me, Lillian?” 
His voice was low and pleading. 

“You would not listen to me,” she returned, sitting straight 
in her chair and speaking with an ease she did not feel. 

With one hand he drew her chair quite close, while the 
other clasped both hers. “Lillian, I have loved you since I first 
saw you, at the Mandels. Do you remember that first meet- 
ing, dearest, that first waltz you gave me? You were my 
fairy queen that night. I loved you then, though I scarcely 
realized it; but since then — since that night — I have loved you 
more and more. I love you passionately, Lillian ; I love you 
with my whole heart. Have you not seen it in my face? Have 
my eyes not told you every day that you were loved?” 

He paused, for a moment, but she sat silently gazing out 
into the moonlit street, with only the passionate words “I love 
you,” ringing in her ears and silently echoing in her heart. 

“For more than two years I have loved deeply, silently,” 
he continued. “I could endure silence no longer; I felt that I 
must speak; I must know, if even a small part of my love is 
returned. Tell me, my fair, beautiful Lillian — my peerless 
sweetheart — that I have not loved for naught. I am not yet 
twenty-one, Lillian, but I have loved as I shall never love again; 
my whole heart is yours ; it shall always be yours. Will you 
keep it, or will you send it into exile and on to death? Tell 
me, Lillian, will you try to love me; will you some day be my 
wife?” 

He leaned toward her, with his face very near to hers, and 
his hand involuntarily tightened its warm clasp. For a time all 
was silence. It was a still, calm evening — quite warm for 
March — only a faint breeze stirred the boughs of the ever- 
greens on the lawn, while above them, numberless stars shone 
in the deep blue of the sky, and the moon — full and round — 


142 


ROSELIN 


hung in their midst, sending out the silvery rays, which fell 
with a soft, mellow light over the two at the window; then a 
thin filmy cloud floated over its face, casting a slight shadow 
about them. Lillian saw it all, her heart beating with a wild, 
uncontrollable joy, her cheeks crimson, her eyes shining with 
the brilliant light of happiness, and her soft, golden curls 
moving to and fro as Llewellyn’s breath floated past them. He 
was waiting for her answer. His big, brown eyes rested im- 
ploringly upon her, and she felt that he could hear the wild 
throbbing of her heart; that he could feel the thrill of joy, 
as the telegraphic nerves sent the message of love to her 
very finger tips. It was all so beautiful, she dared not break 
the silence. 

^‘Have you no word for me? One word of hope, dear, and 
I shall be content. Can you not learn to love me?” he pleaded. 

Then she turned her half-averted face toward him; “I think 
I’ve learned that lesson well,” she murmured softly, but he 
had already read the message that love had written upon her 
face. At last it had overflowed, and her face shone with a 
light that made it beautiful. 

“Darling!” he whispered, as he encircled her with his arms 
and pressed hot kisses upon her sweet, trembling lips. The 
next few moments were golden moments to them both ; moments 
never to be forgotten. They had no thought of the past; per- 
fect love filled their hearts, and dwelling long in the glorious 
present, they slipped away into the future — ^the bright, happy 
future, when Lillian should be the light and pride of his home. 
Life would be one perfect dream of happiness then; but they 
must wait long for that glorious time. He was to return to 
Chicago with his father and there he would continue his studies. 

“The time may seem long, dearest,” said he; “but I shall 
study as I have never studied before. I shall make my way 
through school and then, when I am a practicing physician, I 
shall claim you. Is it long to wait, Lillian?” 

“Oh! no, I shall be happy while I wait for you, Llewellyn,” 
she replied, and there was a low, loving accent on the name. 

“We shall wait and love till then, shall we not?” he whis- 
pered. 


LLEWELLYN AND LILLIAN 


143 


The moon appeared above the long, silvery cloud, the stars 
twinkled like diamonds in the turquoise heavens ; Lillian nodded, 
and they sat in silence. A moment later, they started as a 
bright light fell upon them. They had not heard the soft tread 
as Miss Klive entered, nor had she noticed them, until, on turn- 
ing the shade, the brighter light drove out the moonlight, and 
revealed the two near the window. 

“Oh ! pardon me ; I thought you were alone — I thought Miss 
Lillian had left you,” she exclaimed. 

“We have been enjoying the moonlight,” Llewellyn replied, 
smilingly, without releasing Lillian’s hand. She blushed deeply 
and a moment later, as the ‘General came in, she bade them 
good-night and left them. 

Time passed all too swiftly and, at the end of two weeks, 
Llewellyn began preparing for the journey home. The day be- 
fore his departure, he came to the Allington apartment, where 
he found Wilma alone. Lillian had not returned from class 
and he sat down to wait for her. Wilma had watched her sis- 
ter and Llewellyn, closely, during the past week, and she in- 
stinctively felt that there was something between them; and 
now, as she sat talking with him, her heart throbbed bitterly as 
she thought how Lillian had, perhaps, won what she herself had 
lost. 

“T hope you will visit us at Roselin. The summer is beauti- 
ful there,” she said, looking into his dark eyes; then laughingly 
she continued : “but I presume you and Lillian have arranged 
that.” 

“Thank you,” he returned; “I fear I shall not have that 
pleasure this summer, much as I would enjoy it; but I have 
promised myself the honor of visiting Roselin some time in the 
future.” 

“It will certainly be a pleasure to entertain you.” Wilma’s 
tones were very cordial and Llewellyn replied : 

“One could not find a more charming trio for one’s hos- 
tesses than you and your sisters, Miss Wilma.” 

“My sisters?” she repeated, somewhat scornfully, her black 
eyes looking straight into his. “May I ask, who is included in 
the trio besides Lillian and myself?” 

His eyes did not waver beneath her gaze as he replied : 
“Your sister Grace.” 


144 


ROSELIN 


“Don’t call Grace Wilton my sister !” she answered, with a 
hauteur, a proud amazement that should have crushed him. 

“Grace Wilton,’’ he repeated; and the lines of self-repression 
deepened around his white lips and nostrils. For awhile he 
sat in deep thought, entirely oblivious of Wilma’s presence, then 
suddenly rousing himself, he said : “Then I am mistaken, I 
thought her name was Allington. Did you say it was Wilton?” 

He looked searchingly at her as she replied; then his long 
lashes veiled the eyes that would not meet hers, as she con- 
tinued : 

“It seems incredible that you could have imagined her to 
be one of our family. ’Tis true, she is living at Roselin at 
present, but she is only the stepdaughter of my father. A sister 
of mine ! an Allington ! — indeed !” Wilma laughed scornfully, 
and the hot blood rushed into Llewellyn’s colorless cheeks. 

“Pardon me, Wilma, but where was Grace’s mother living 
at the time of your father’s marriage to her?” he asked abruptly. 

She paused and looked at him. “Can it be that you are 
so deeply interested in her?” 

“I was interested in her as Lillian’s sister and now, that 
I know she is not, it does not change,” he replied. 

“I think I can answer your question,” Wilma continued. “My 
father had known Mrs. Wilton in early years. He married her 
in a little town in a western state. I could tell you a great deal 
of her early history, as well as that of her daughter, but it is 
a very disagreeable topic and seldom mentioned in our home. 
I do not wish to awaken the ghost of the past, so please let us 
discontinue the subject.” 

“Certainly, if it is so unpleasant to you,” he replied, with 
gallant politeness. 

“It is unpleasant for us all,” she answered. 

“I have confided to you, Llewellyn, that which concerns our 
family alone; but I trust you. You will repeat it to no one;” 
she said in a softened voice, after a moment’s silence. 

“I assure you it is perfectly safe with me;” and again Llew- 
ellyn seemed so lost in thought that he was entirely unaware 
of the questioning, black eyes fastened upon him, the look of 
puzzled astonishment that accompanied the gaze — wholly ob- 
livious that there was another present, and when at last Lil- 


LLEWELLYN AND LILLIAN 


145 


lian came tripping into the room he started. Then the look of 
tender love, came into his eyes, his cheek regained its usual 
color, and rising he moved toward her. Gently taking both 
her hands, he led her from the room, leaving Wilma puzzled 
and bewildered. His manner, when speaking of Grace, had 
annoyed her and his tender, loving manner toward Lillian 
caused her to wonder which of the girls he really loved. Could ' 
it be that Grace Wilton had at last stolen the love which 
her only sister had so unwittingly taken from her? An indig- 
nant flush overspread her face and she planted the heel of her 
dainty shoe deep into the soft velvet of the carpet. 

It was some time before Lillian came back to the room, her 
face radiant with blushes, her eyes shining with a light of min- 
gled joy and sadness. Wilma looked up from her music as 
she sat down upon an ottoman near the piano, then she con- 
tinued her practicing, while Lillian sat with her hands folded 
over her knee and her eyes following her sister’s graceful fingers 
as they flew over the pearly keys. The piece ended, and turn- 
ing to her, Wilma asked : 

“You have been walking with Llewellyn, have you not?” 

“Yes; it is delightful out today; the sunshine is quite warm 
and the air is so refreshing.” The glow of Lillian’s cheek deep- 
ened, and drawing a letter from her belt, she continued : “I had 
almost forgotten Grace’s letter.” 

Wilma watched her as she opened the envelope and drew 
out the folded sheets. 

“Do you realize, Lillian, that Llewellyn is greatly interested 
in Grace? In love with her, I think.” 

Lillian looked up. “In love with Grace?” she laughed. “How 
absurd, Wilma. Where did you ever get the idea?” 

“It does not matter. I know what I am talking about.” 

“Pardon me, sister, but I do not think you do. Llewellyn 
does not love Grace,” she declared. 

“Your authority?” questioned Wilma. 

Lillian’s eyes drooped. “Because he loves someone else,” 
she replied softly. 

“Have you his word for it?” Wilma continued, determined 
to find how affairs stood between her sister and Llewellyn. 


10 


146 


ROSELIN 


“I could hardly make that statement, truthfully, without his 
word for it” 

“Well, then I presume you are engaged!” exclaimed Wilma; 
“and when does this lover of yours intend to make you his 
wife?” she went on in a mocking voice. 

“Not until he is through school,” Lillian answered, in a 
matter-of-fact tone. 

“Through school! Oh dear me! How dreadfully long to 
wait for a husband ! but believe me, Lillian, he is only trifling 
with your love; he does not mean what he said. He is deceiving 
you. I tell you, he loves Grace Wilton. He has acknowledged 
his interest in her and his manner proves his love.” 

“Oh! nonsense, Wilma, he cares for Grace only as my sister 
and my friend.” 

“Trust him if you will.” 

“I do trust him,” Lillian answered firmly, as, with elevated 
chin, Wilma turned to the piano. 

“I have warned you; you will some day learn your fate,” 
she said; and mingled with her words were the soft rippling 
notes of a sonata, but Lillian did not heed her. 

No thoughts of jealousy marred that next day — the last 
hours with Llewellyn — but mingled with her love was a tender 
sympathy for her lover, who was leaving her, for the home, 
where there was no mother — as on former occasions — waiting 
to welcome her college son; and at last when he took her in 
his arms and whispered: “I shall always love you, darling; I 
shall be true to you always. You will love me; you will trust 
me, Lillian, my sweetheart?” She answered, “I will trust you 
before the whole world, Llewellyn.” 

Then with a last passionate kiss, he was gone. As he passed 
down the walk and took his seat at the General’s side, he 
glanced back at the huge stone building and up to the window 
where, framed by the rich curtains on either side, was Lillian’s 
fair, sweet face; and she smiled through her tears as his eyes 
met hers. She did not for a moment doubt his love for her. 

Will her trust in him always remain as now, when during 
the first weeks of love — the hour of parting — she would believe 
him — trust him — ^before the whole world? 


'GENEVIEVE, YOU ARE MY IDEAU^ 


147 


CHAPTER XXV 

‘AH, GENEVIEVE, YOU ARE MY MODEL, MY IDEAL’’ 

The April rain was falling, softly, steadily. Willard sat idly 
watching the big drops as they beat against the window and 
coursed their crooked way down the glass. Before him lay a 
number of penciled sketches in black and white, but the hand 
that lay upon the table had dropped the pencil; between the 
fingers there lay a cigar, from which a thin white wreath of 
smoke curled upward and circled above the head of the young 
artist. Not far from him was an easel. Over it a dark cur- 
tain was drawn, completely hiding the picture beneath. Present- 
ly he turned from the window, tossed aside the cigar and glanced 
carelessly over the sketches; then throwing back the curtain, 
which veiled the recently finished painting, he looked longingly 
upon the delicate features. The graceful curve of the smiling 
lips, the slight flush on the cheek — as fair and delicate as a pink- 
tinted apple blossom — the soft waves of the rich brown hair, the 
lacy fullness of the dress about the white neck and shoulders — 
all were perfect, but, as the large dark eyes looked deep into 
his, Willard exclaimed: “I have not done it justice.” 

With his hands folded above his head he sank back into his 
chair, but his eyes still lingered upon the canvas. It was a 
picture of Genevieve as he had seen her at the Carlson party; 
her first evening in society, when Chester Collins had been her 
escort. It was in the music-room that her eyes had met his, 
just as those in the picture before him; the lips were smiling, 
too, but how quickly the smile had faded and vanished when 
her eyes met his. Willard could not forget it. At that mo- 
ment, he had been pained — he had been angry. Since then he 
had forgiven her but he had not forgotten. Forgotten? — No, he 
would never forget the sweet fascinating beauty which had 
won more hearts than his that night, and which he declared 
he had not done justice. 

“What would the girls say if they could see you?” He 
nodded emphatically toward the picture, and his musical laugh 


148 


ROSELIN 


echoed through the studio as he thought of Marie looking upon 
his latest picture. Then he thought how a few weeks before, 
she had asked him to do her likeness, how he had refused, 
saying he had more to do than he could well do at one time, 
and how disappointed she had seemed when he had shattered 
her pet hope. “You should have a model for your pictures, ’’ 
she had pouted : “and Tve been kind enough to offer my service 
and consequently been rejected.’’ Her words came back to 
him now. 

“Perhaps I did wrong to refuse her, for she really loves me,” 
he said to himself. “Yes, she really loves me; but ah, Genevieve, 
you are my model; you are my ideal. Can I say that you, too, 
love me?” 

His eyes looked long into those before him as if he expected 
there to find the answer to his question; then slowly his eyes 
closed, but the picture was ever before him, and now, beside it, 
he mentally saw one of Marie. She was a belle — an heiress — yet 
he did not think her one-half as lovely as the poor country 
girl who was making her way through school, gaining for her- 
self that which would otherwise have been denied her. She was 
only an office girl, while Marie was a child of luxury, caressed 
and flattered by society; but he could not deny his preference 
— his love — for the former. His comparison detracted nothing 
from Genevieve. Only in one point could Marie excel, and 
that was in wealth. Wilma might judge from that point; he 
would not — he was no fortune seeker — if necessary he could 
make his own fortune by his painting. 

Thus he sat thinking of the two girls, comparing their 
beauty, their wealth, Lillian’s love for the one, and Wilma’s 
for the other. Did Genevieve care for him as he half believed 
he had always cared for her? Did she think of him only as a 
friend? What would her answer be if some day he should ask 
her to be his wife? 

The rain had ceased and the sun was shining when he 
awoke from his reverie and looked out into the street below. 
Far up the avenue he saw Genevieve coming, and hastily draw- 
ing the curtain over his painting, he left the room, locking 
the door behind him. 

“What would she think of me, if she knew that I have been 


GENEVIEVE, YOU ARE MY IDEAV^ 


149 


dreaming of her, confessing myself in love with her, and almost 
resolving to propose to her at once — besides painting her pic- 
ture?’^ he thought, as he ran down the steps and across the 
lawn. “She would laugh at me; she would say that I had 
made a fool of myself, and perhaps I have, for I know she 
would reject me; she is so different from Marie,” he con- 
tinued in answer to his own thoughts. 

Soon he was at Genevieve's side, strolling leisurely toward 
Mrs. North’s, while about them, the warm raindrops sparkled 
and splashed in the sunshine as they fell from the budded 
branches that cast their shadow over the wet pavements, and 
the warbling note of a spring bird floated to them from above. 

“Pardon me; Clinton is my name. Do I address Mr. Ailing- 
ton?” 

It was a dark young southerner of medium stature who 
approached them, raising his hat with an air of politeness as he 
asked the question. Looking up Genevieve saw the young 
stranger, who had that morning visited the office, talking for 
some time with Mr. Carlson, and at last leaving the office in 
company with Mr. Collins, just as Willard had passed in the 
automobile with Louis Mandel. 

“I am here looking up some real estate,” he continued. “Your 
father is well known to the firm of ‘Clinton and Van Brunt,’ of 
New Orleans, and Mr. Carlson thought perhaps you could help 
me. 

“I have often heard my father speak of the firm you men- 
tion. I am very glad to know you, Mr. Clinton, and shall be 
glad to offer you any service in my power.” 

“Thank you. I have rooms here at present, and if I may see 
you this evening, I shall feel myself very much indebted to you 
for your kindness.” 

“Certainly, I shall see you at eight-thirty if satisfactory.” 

“Very well; I shall not detain you longer;” and again rais- 
ing his hat he was gone. 

“A nice chap — this Clinton — I think,” Willard remarked, as 
they walked on. 

“Yes, an attractive person, at least. I met him at the office 
this morning, but I did not know he was the occupant of 
Llewellyn’s room. I presume Mr. Collins has sent him to Mrs. 
North.” 


150 


ROSELIN 


As they were about to part at Genevieve’s door, Dale 
Clinton came up the hall with a careless, swinging stride, and 
entered the room which was formerly occupied by Llewellyn. 
He was the son of a rich southern lawyer — dark, handsome, 
and attractive, with heavy locks of black hair falling upon the 
dark brow, and long, black lashes shaded bright, mischievous 
eyes. He had come to Baltimore to see about some business 
for his father, and for several weeks remained at the home of 
Mrs. North. As the days passed, he and Willard became quite 
intimate — Willard attracted by the easy, polished manner of the 
southerner, while he found Willard’s calm, dignified manner 
equally attractive. 

Between Wilma and Louis Mandel there existed a slight 
wave of indifference ; and now, she flirted with the young 
southerner, in a way that pleased and amused Marie, who, had 
it not been for her love and hopes of winning Willard, would 
have been a merciless coquette; and Dale Clinton — jolly, good- 
humored fellow — rode, walked and danced with Wilma, at- 
tended parties and concerts as her escort, with seemingly the 
greatest of pleasure. 

I am positively ashamed of you, Wilma ! I never thought 
you to be the heartless coquette you are proving yourself!” 
exclaimed Lillian, one evening as her sister stood before the 
mirror, fastening a flower in her belt. 

“I am not a coquette!” she returned; “I really like Mr. 
Clinton, and perhaps in time, I might love him; but he goes 
south next week, and I presume Louis will be ready to play 
the devoted, ere then.” 

“But Mr. Clinton thinks you love him, and no doubt may 
return that love.” 

“Oh, you need not worry yourself needlessly, about Mr. Clin- 
ton !” 

Wilma spoke truthfully; for upon the beauty of Willard’s 
sisters — both fair and lovely, and dark and stately — he looked 
with criticizing eyes ; for he had some weeks before met 
his fate. And, as he flirted with Wilma, or talked with the 
other girls, he frequently found himself comparing with them, 
the pink, dimpled cheeks, glossy, chestnut curls, and slender 
form of another young girl; and when he was again in New 


^^GENEVIEVE, YOU ARE MY IDEAL” 


151 


Orleans — in his southern home — while all other faces faded from 
his memory, that one remained — luring him on to higher things, 
and causing the boy of two and twenty to become a man, more 
noble — more true — than he might have been had not that face — 
fair, pure and charming — crossed his northern path. 

As days and weeks passed after his departure, Wilma found 
herself beginning to love Louis Mandel with a deep, passion- 
ate love that could not be controlled. She had put aside her 
likings for Llewellyn, as useless ; she had forgotten her flirta- 
tion of the past weeks, and all her thoughts now turned to 
Louis, who, after the slight wave of indifference, was now very 
attentive. At home he was equally attentive to Adelaide. His 
irresistible, brotherly attitude at times became quite lover-like 
and Adelaide often puzzled over his conduct toward her; and 
she found herself, much against her will, gradually falling in 
love with him. In vain she tried to break the ties which bound 
her, she only found herself becoming more deeply in love. 


152 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXVI 

AFTER THREE YEARS 

It was commencement at Baltimore. 

A hushed murmur ran through the crowd which filled the 
University Hall, as the valedictorian, with sweet, quiet dignity, 
came before them, her face gleaming marble white above the 
black gown which hung in soft folds about her; then the mur- 
mur ceased; friends and strangers alike leaned forward breath- 
lessly as her voice — soft, sweet, untremulously clear — floated 
out, with words of inspiring grace and beauty. Then as the 
eloquent words ceased, and the last echo died away, there arose 
a burst of applause which rocked the building to its very founda- 
tion, and a shower of bouquets fell upon the platform, at her 
feet. With queenly grace, she — Genevieve Layton — accepted the 
superb cluster of American Beauties, which an usher placed upon 
her arm, and instinctively, her eyes fell upon the group at the 
left of the platform, where sat Willard, Grace and Lillian, and 
with them, Llewellyn Greymore — now a graduate of a Chicago 
University, and a practicing young physician. (At last, after two 
more years of hard study and one year of successful practice in 
the city, he had come again to Baltimore, where his many 
friends warmly welcomed him.) Then her eyes smilingly met 
those of her mother, whose face shone with pride and satisfac- 
tion, as she sat beside Robert, leaning eagerly forward, while 
Genevieve gathered up the bouquets at her feet. 

Among them was one of white, half-open rosebuds, whose 
delicate fragrance breathed to her more than friendship, for 
Chester Collins — her employer still — she knew, had loved her 
long, and as she gently placed the waxy blossoms among the 
rich, long-stemmed American Beauties, which nodded on her 
shoulder, a slight color dyed her cheeks. But avoiding the eyes 
of her employer, she again glanced at the group on the left and 
with the same sweet, graceful dignity, with which she came, left 
the platform, 


AFTER THREE YEARS 


153 


Mr. Carlson, with a fatherly interest in the girl who had 
served so faithfully — so willingly — in the office, was the first 
to meet her. ‘‘Well done, Miss Genevieve; well done,” he ex- 
claimed, grasping her hand, with hearty congratulations. Wil- 
lard pressed close behind him and a moment later was guiding 
her through the throng that surrounded them. At last they 
reached the door, where Llewellyn, with Lillian and Grace, 
were waiting for them, while her mother and Robert were slowly 
making their way toward them. 

“Dale Clinton is here !” Genevieve exclaimed, turning to 
Willard. 

“Of all things ! He wrote he wasn’t coming until later.” 

“Nevertheless he sat with Mr. Collins this evening. Per- 
haps we shall see him. There is Mr. Collins now,” she con- 
tinued, as the people moved on and Chester Collins, with Dale 
Clinton, came full into view. 

“You are the fellow I was looking for, Allington, and I 
knew I would find you here. Congratulations, Miss Layton ; you 
were certainly the belle of the commencement. Good evening. 
Miss Allington, it is a pleasure to see 3^ou once again; and 
where is the sister?” 

“She did not come to Baltimore with us, Mr. Clinton. Wil- 
lard and I only came up for a few days to attend the com- 
mencement; and it is an unexpected pleasure to see you here; 
and I want you to meet my friends.” 

Lillian turned to Grace and Llewellyn, the former of whom 
had scanned him as he came up to them, and involuntarily she 
shrank from him ; for she knew that she had looked upon 
that face before — for although now a man of twenty-five, one 
year Willard’s senior — he was Dale Clinton still, and in him 
she recognized the young fellow whom she had met on the train, 
several years before. A vision of her ride from Ashville to 
Baltimore floated before her. Could it be that this fellow was 
Dale Clinton, of whom she had heard Willard and the girls 
speak so frequently, and with whom Willard was on the most 
intimate terms — ^this fellow whose memory she had so much dis- 
liked, that Willard was expecting to visit Roselin that summer ? She 
had hoped never to meet him again, but here he was before her, and 
she hoped that she was not recognized. But alas ! vainly did she 


154 


ROSELIN 


hope; for it was her memory which Dale Clinton had carried 
with him, from the time of that attempted flirtation with the 
young girl on the cars between Boston and Baltimore. It was 
the memory of her face that lingered still, and for her, it was, 
that he had striven to become what he was — a prosperous 
lawyer, a junior member of his father’s firm, ‘‘Clinton and Van 
Brunt” — for he felt that, sometime, he would meet her again, 
and now, although she had changed from the charming girl, 
as he remembered her, to a grown young lady, equally as charm- 
ing, he could not fail to recognize her. There were the same 
pink, dimpled cheeks, brown eyes, and chestnut curls,, the same 
willowy form, though somewhat taller. 

“Have we not met before. Miss Wilton?” he asked, as her 
eyes met his. 

“I do not remember the name, only as I have heard Wil- 
lard and his sisters mention it,” she replied coldly, but as he 
noted the malicious twinkle of her brown eyes, he knew that he, 
too, was recognized; but he also found her quite unwilling to 
acknowledge it. 

The crowd moved on, bringing with it those for whom they 
were waiting, while Genevieve, standing on tip-toe, frequently 
caught sight of her mother’s black, ribbon-trimmed bonnet, as 
Robert whose bronzed face she could plainly see above the 
many others, guided her nearer and nearer. “I thought you 
would never get through that awful throng,” she exclaimed, 
taking the thin little hand in hers and looking down into the 
mother’s eyes, filled with happy tears of joy and pride at the 
success of her only daughter. 

The warm summer moon was shining brightly as they came 
out into the street, and the young people — all save Genevieve — 
at once gave up the idea of occupying a place in the automo- 
bile waiting for them. They preferred walking down the moon- 
lit streets and shaded avenues, through which the way to the 
Moreland Place led them. But Genevieve, at first, could not be 
persuaded to accompany them. She preferred going with her 
mother in the car, she said, and Robert and the others remon- 
strated in vain, but at last her mother dissuaded her from her 
purpose, and when the big car whirled down the street. Mrs, 
Layton and Robert were its only occupants, 


AFTER THREE YEARS 


155 


By dexterous management, Dale Clinton gained the place at 
Lillian’s side and Llewellyn — quite willingly it seemed — fell 
into step with Grace. She had frowned upon the young south- 
erner and now his adroit plans to leave Llewellyn to her did 
not escape her notice. How glad she was when she saw him 
at Lillian’s side and found herself alone with Llewellyn — one 
whom she felt to be a true friend. Then her brain seemed 
whirling as she tried to think of the young fellow on the 
cars and Dale Clinton being one. It seemed impossible! Her 
imaginary Dale Clinton vanished and the real, the only one — a 
flirt — remained. 

The balmy June breeze floated over them and the moon looked 
down with the brightest smile he had worn, during all the few, 
brief summer evenings. His mellow rays seemed to penetrate 
the deepest shadow. Grace walked silently by the side of her 
companion, who, all unnoticed, bent an eager, searching gaze 
upon her, and mingled with it, there seemed to be a look of 
puzzled annoyance. He carefully scanned each feature, from the 
pure white brow upon which fell the thick brown waves, to 
the thin, though dimpled, rose-tinted cheeks, delicately curved 
lips and beautifully molded chin. Suddenly she raised her eyes 
to his and, with a sigh, loosened her light cloak at the throat, 
throwing it back and displaying a ruby necklace. 

“Forgive me, Grace, if I tell you how pretty and charming 
you look this evening,” he said. “Rubies are splendid! and if 
I were you, I should always wear them.” He lightly touched 
the crimson stones as he spoke. 

“I dearly love them, but seldom — I may say — never wear 
them,” she returned. 

“What ! you love them and yet do not wear them ? They are 
very becoming, I assure you.” 

“I know,” she said, smiling at him ; “but you see, I have none 
of my own. These are Wilma’s and I wore them very much 
against my wishes. Lillian brought them with her jewels and 
nothing would please her until I promised to wear them to- 
night.” 

Her fingers caressed the rubies at her throat and her eyes met 
his with a look which plainly said : “Do you think Wilma would 
be pleased if she knew? What do you think she would say, 
could she see her precious rubies?” 


156 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXVII 

THE FIRST LINK 

‘^Can it be that I have at last, after so many years of thought 
and mystery, found the small link which may connect the present 
with the past?'' 

Llewellyn paused before his dressing table and for a moment 
gazed thoughtfully at the reflection of his face in the mirror, 
then upon the small golden locket which lay open in his hand; 
then his fingers slowly closed over it and when they again 
relaxed, the thin, golden surface of the locket hid from view the 
childish face of the small boy upon which his eyes had been 
resting. 

“Yes, they are alike; very much alike," he soliloquized, re- 
placing it in its velvet case, and, quite forgetful of the late hour, 
sank carelessly into a chair. “For three long years — long years 
they have been — this new thought has haunted me, and now, 
I feel sure that it is true." For a moment he was silent — 
lost in thought too deep for words — then he arose, and moving 
toward the window, he exclaimed : “Oh ! the joy to know it ! — to 
feel it ! — to tell it — but I must wait — ^yes, I must wait ;" and 
again he lapsed into silence. 

The dim grayness of the coming day had begun to gather 
over the city before he arose from his reverie ; and when he 
at last laid his head upon the pillow, thoughts of his arrival in 
Baltimore and of the past evening spent with Lillian and Grace 
at the commencement mingled and intertwined themselves with 
vivid fancies of the past and future. He could not sleep, and 
just as the sun rose into view above the horizon, sending its 
rose and golden tints far out over the eastern sky, he stole 
from the room and out across the green lawn which lay just 
back of the house. But his thoughts were far remote from the 
beauty surrounding him, and he started when he came suddenly 
upon Lillian and Grace, almost hidden beneath a drooping, 
vine-covered branch of a tree. 


THE FIRST LINK 


157 


‘‘Pardon me,” he exclaimed; “I hardly expected to find you 
here; for I was just congratulating myself upon being the 
earliest riser.” 

“You need not have been flattering yourself; we have been 
here almost half an hour,” Grace returned, as she raised her 
dark curly head from Lillian’s shoulder and looked up at the 
tall figure before them. 

“How do you like our leafy bower, Llewellyn?” Lillian asked, 
as he hesitated for a moment, with half averted face. 

“It is certainly a beautiful place at sunrise,” he replied, turn- 
ing again to look upon the two girls, with their fresh white 
dresses gleaming against the dark trunk of the old tree. “May 
I join you here, or must I stroll on alone?” he asked pleadingly. 

“Oh ! please stay !” Grace exclaimed ; and the radiant blushes 
which stole into Lillian’s cheeks, the shy drooping of the bright 
blue eyes, as he threw himself upon the grass at her feet, told 
him that she had been true to the promise she had made three 
years before. 

“Grace has been telling me of Vale Cottage, her old home 
in the south,” Lillian said after a short silence, during which 
past thoughts and fancies had been flooding Llewellyn’s mind, 
and at the sound of her voice, he started and the blushes in 
Lillian’s cheeks were reflected upon his; but quickly collecting 
himself, he turned to Grace. 

“Vale Cottage,” he repeated thoughtfully; then after a pause 
continued: “please go on with your story, Grace; but tell me 
first where is Vale Cottage — this southern home of yours?” 

“In Western Springs not far from New Orleans,” she re- 
plied, without looking at him and her thoughts seemed to drift 
away to the little rose-covered cottage of her childhood. Llew- 
ellyn listened with interest as she described the cottage, the gar- 
den, and the big, vine-covered tree, of which the one whose 
branches were now waving above them reminded her. “Then 
almost seven years ago, when I was but twelve years old, 
mamma and I came to Roselin. A more beautiful place I have 
never seen,” she added; “but Lillian and I are hoping to visit 
New Orleans and Vale Cottage, before the summer passes.” 

There her story ended and Llewellyn knew but Tittle more 
of her life than he had obtained from Wilma, years before save 


158 


ROSELIN 


that her home had been near New Orleans — in the south — in- 
stead of a western state. 

Half an hour later she left them and went in search of Gene- 
vieve, whom she found busily engaged preparing her mother for 
her homeward journey. Mrs. Layton and Robert were to leave 
on an early train for Ashville, while Grace, with Willard and 
Lillian, was to remain until the day following. Genevieve now 
held the position of book-keeper at the office; and she hoped 
for only a short vacation a few weeks later. Soon after her 
mother’s and Robert’s departure she started to her work, ac- 
companied by Willard. 

The gay groups of noisy students, which usually gathered on 
the lawn, had disappeared. Some of them had departed on 
earlier trains, while those who still remained were busy with 
their preparations, in their own apartments ; and to Grace, every- 
thing seemed grave and still as she turned from the door and 
looked down the long, silent halls. Swiftly she returned to the 
apartment which this year had been Genevieve’s and hers, and 
as she knelt down beside the table, piled high with books, and 
began to place them one after another into the trunk, about 
which numerous other articles were strewn, the tears began to 
glisten upon the silken lashes and roll slowly down her cheeks. 
This winter had been a happy one for Grace, who had, from 
the beginning, loved both teachers and classmates, and in turn 
been loved by them ; and now she could not contentedly put 
aside her books and go back to Roselin — where the family had 
recently returned, having spent the winter in Boston. There 
Wilma had reigned supreme, as the belle of fashionable society, 
and consequently was more pfoud and haughty than ever be- 
fore, and Grace shrank from spending the summer under the 
same roof with her; for while seven years of life at Roselin 
had made her love Lillian more and more, drawing them nearer 
and nearer to each other, it had not lessened the icy gulf which 
lay between her and Wilma, and had it not been that her mother 
needed her love and comfort, she would have much preferred 
spending the summer with Genevieve in Baltimore. 

*Tf it were only to Vale Cottage I was going — just mamma 
and I — how happy I should be,” she murmured to herself, as 
with the vain hope that the summer would pass smoothly at Rose- 
lin, she wiped the tears from her eyes and continued her work. 


THE FIRST LINK 


159 


When at last every article was hidden away in the trunk, she 
slowly turned the key in its lock and stood looking about the 
room. The small bookcase in the corner had lost over half its 
burden. Dark spaces showed plainly between Genevieve^s cloth 
bound volumes, and more than one shelf was quite empty. Other 
little things, too, had disappeared from their usual places. Poor 
Genevieve; how sad and lonely this little room would seem to 
her when on the evening following she would return to it, alone. 
How she would miss the young girl who had brightened the 
winter days; how she would miss the companionship and love, 
which had formed a part of her happiness. She would no longer 
be here to greet Genevieve when she returned from her day’s 
work, tired and worn; and the tears again dimmed her eyes as 
she sat down by the window and looked out over the lawn, to- 
ward the shaded bower she had called hers during the past 
autumn and spring days, and where Llewellyn and Lillian were 
sitting now, hidden from view by the swaying branches. For 
awhile she sat silently watching it, then carelessly pushing the 
curls back from her brow, and rubbing her handkerchief vig- 
orously over her face, she started from the room. She had not 
heard the footsteps in the hall and as she opened the door, she 
looked up in surprise. 

“Good morning,” she said, with a cold little air, as she was 
about to pass the dark, young southern lawyer, who was walk- 
ing slowly down the hall in her direction. 

“Pardon me. Miss Wilton,” said he. “You seem to be in 
great haste this morning. In fact, you passed me on your way 
from the lawn, over an hour ago, but you would not glance my 
way;” and the man of twenty-five looked smilingly down upon 
the young girl of nineteen. 

“Truly, Mr. Clinton, I did not see you,” she said. 

“You were dreaming of someone else at that moment, 
I presume.” 

“Yes,” she answered truthfully, and a slight frown clouded 
his brow. 

“Well, at least, I shall forgive you, if you can spare me a 
few minutes on the veranda. ’Tis quite pleasant there, and Pm 
sure you will enjoy it. You look tired. Miss Wilton;” and with 
no reasonable excuse to offer, she allowed him to lead the way 


160 


ROSELIN 


down the broad stairs and out upon the cool, pleasant veranda, 
where he perched himself upon the balustrade near her chair. 

“There are many changes here and at the University, since I 
first visited Baltimore,” he remarked. 

“Yes, many,” she replied; “and the place seems so dull and 
lonely since so many of the students have departed.” 

“Yes ; but still there are a few attractions ; though I must 
confess, I did feel a bit lonely strolling alone on the lawn.” 

Grace tried in vain to conceal her dislike for the handsome 
southerner, but each time she spoke, her tones became more 
frigid and her manner more reserved. His gallant politeness, 
his easy winning manner, had no effect upon her — certainly not 
the effect he wished it to have — for he knew now that she dis- 
liked him, if possible, even more than before. As she arose, say- 
ing she must go back to her rooms and finish her work, he 
gently took her hand and looking up into the brown eyes bent 
upon him with a stern, cold gaze, said: 

“Miss Wilton, can’t you please forget our former meeting? 
I see it is an unpleasant memory for you, and I now most sin- 
cerely beg your pardon. For my sake, you will forgive and for- 
get, will you not?” 

The pleading pathos in his voice, the hopeful expression of 
the dark eyes raised to hers, touched Grace more than any- 
thing else could have done. A ghost of a smile trembled about 
her mouth, and drawing her hand from his, she replied : 

“I can forgive you, Mr. Clinton, but I find it much more 
difficult to forget.” 

“I may see you at the Mandel’s to-night, may I not?” he 
asked, as she hastily turned from him, and with a silent nod 
she was gone. 

5jt 4 : * 

It was late in the evening that Llewellyn sat with Willard 
in the little sitting-room of Grace’s apartment, waiting for the 
girls to finish their toilets. Presently Lillian’s sweet persuasive 
tones reached them. “Won’t you wear these rubies again to- 
night, Grace?” 

“No; I cannot wear them again,” was the low answer. 

“But, Grace,” came the emphatic reply, “you need more color 
with that white dress. Please wear them, just this once.” 


THE FIRST LINK 


161 


“Do not ask me to do it, Lillian. They are Wilma’s, and I 
have no right to wear them. I have long wished for some 
of my own, but I do not wish to wear Wilma’s. I wore them 
for your sake, alone, last night; but I shall never do it again.” 

“Fool !” burst impetuously from Willard’s lips. 

For awhile there was silence, then again Lillian’s voice 
reached them — this time in soft tones of comfort. 

“Never mind, Grace, some day you may have jewels even 
more beautiful than Wilma’s. There! those pearls look quite 
well, and I mean to ask papa, again, about getting those rubies 
for you.” 

“No use; she’ll never get them,” exclaimed Willard. “Hang 
the rubies ! I’d buy them for her myself if I thought I dared, 
but there’d be no peace at Roselin for me then.” 

Llewellyn’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes shining as he mur- 
mured softly beneath his breath : 

“I shall succeed at last.” 


162 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

GUESTS AT ROSELIN 

Wilma had for a long time been planning a summer house 
party at Roselin and now, when she learned that both Dale and 
Llewellyn were spending some time in Baltimore, she deter- 
mined to have it the following week; and the servants began 
at once their hasty preparations to make Roselin ready for its 
guests ; and when the morning of their arrival came, it looked 
more beautiful than ever before. It was one huge bower of 
roses. Only here and there the white stone pillars gleamed from 
between the superb clusters and trailing vines which entwined 
them. Roses hung in a profusion from the low balustrade. The 
balmy June breeze, floating gently among them, carried with it 
a sweet, delicate perfume; and every room was perfumed by 
the same fragrant blossoms, gathered and arranged by Grace’s 
fairy fingers. 

Alone in her room, shaded by the rich damask curtains, she 
watched the arrival of the guests. It was a merry party that 
alighted at the gate, greeted by their young hostess, and with a 
great effort, she forced back the tears as she watched them com- 
ing up the walk — Louis and Wilma leading the way, followed 
by Llewellyn and Lillian, Willard and Marie, Dale and Alice 
Mandel, Helen Mandel and Mr. Bartell (to whom she was to 
be married in the early autumn.) 

Grace realized full well that she herself had no part in the 
joys, the pleasures of the days to follow, and with an aching 
sob in her throat, a feeling of loneliness in her heart, she turned 
from the window and again took up her embroidery. Only a 
few days before, her mother had received a letter from the 
west, telling her of the serious illness of her sister, and asking 
her to come at once to her bedside; and on the morning previ- 
ous she and Delia had departed, leaving Grace alone to face 
the trials and sorrows of that summer’s house party. Now only 
one ray of hope brightened her heart as she sat listening to the 


GUESTS AT ROSELIN 


163 


voices below; perhaps after a few days Genevieve would come. 

(For at last — in submission to her brother’s will — Wilma had 
written a short, cold note asking her to spend a part of her va- 
cation at Roselin. This had been accompanied by another from 
Willard, begging her to accept his sister’s invitation and saying, 
“Both Grace and Lillian are anxious that you shall come.”) But 
until then she determined to stay in her own room and her 
mother’s apartments, which were at present unoccupied. 

It was her daily task to arrange fresh flowers in the rooms 
below, but this she did each morning before the guests had 
arisen and thus as much as possible avoided meeting them. She 
had an early breakfast with Mr. Allington and Willard in the 
family breakfast room, at which meetings Mr. Allington was 
silent, while Willard sternly remonstrated with her upon what 
he called “her selfish determination”; then she would go back 
to her room, while Willard painted in his studio across the hall 
and later joined the guests in the parlor. At noon she dined 
alone in her mother’s little sitting-room and there also, Ellen, 
the new maid, served her supper. 

Several times she met Alice and Helen Mandel and each 
time they greeted her with friendly words and pleasant smiles. 
Once only she had met Marie, and then that young lady had 
passed her with a bow, so cold, so stifY, as she haughtily held 
back her silken skirts, that Grace could scarcely keep the tears 
back. 

Lillian often came to her, asking her to join them, but the 
memory of Wilma’s tone and manner, when speaking to her of 
“my party,” each time made her more determined to keep to 
herself. Once, too, Llewellyn and Lillian had spent an evening 
with her, in Mrs. Allington’s sitting-room, while the rest of the 
party were canoeing. He seemed to understand perfectly, the 
sad yearning of the young heart, the longing for the gayeties 
and pleasures which Wilma’s haughty hatred deprived her, and 
his manner toward her was kind and gentle. Dale Clinton and 
the others she had not seen, only as she watched them from 
the window; then she had noticed that the young southerner, 
with his bright, winning manner, seemed to be a favorite with 
them all. 


164 


ROSELIN 


On the fourth morning of the party, Grace, with basket and 
scissors, went as usual to gather the flowers for the vases. Gene- 
vieve was to arrive at the cottage that morning, and her heart 
was lighter than usual, and she softly sang the strains of a song, 
as she cut the crimson and white blossoms she could reach from 
the veranda. Her basket was soon filled, and leaving it on the 
emerald lawn, she started down the garden path bordered on 
either side by roses. Her broad-brimmed straw hat had fallen 
back upon her shoulders, . suspended by its ribbon streamers. 
Carefully she began clipping the choicest rosebuds. Her white, 
lace-trimmed apron was almost full, when a voice behind her 
said : 

‘‘Well ! Miss Wilton, I have at last found the fairest flower 
of them all.’^ 

The hot blood rushed to her cheeks and a white rosebud fell 
from her fingers, but hastily extending her hand she exclaimed: 
“Good-morning, Mr. Clinton; I did not know there was another 
in the garden.’’ 

“Yesterday I watched you from my window as you gathered 
your roses, and you looked so pretty — so happy among the flow- 
ers, that I thought perhaps it would revive my own spirits,” said 
he, restoring the fallen rosebud. “You love your flowers, do 
you not. Miss Wilton?” he continued. 

“Yes, I love the roses. As I cut them each one seems to me 
more beautiful than all the others.” 

“Why need you hurry away with your flowers?” he asked, 
laying a detaining hand upon her arm as she was about to leave 
the garden. “Come with me to my favorite arbor, at the fur- 
ther end of the garden;” and not wholly unwillingly, Grace fol- 
lowed him down the narrow path to a shaded corner of the 
garden, where a small lawn-seat was almost hidden by the vines 
and roses surrounding it. There they sat listening to the birds 
warbling their morning songs, and watching the dew-bedecked 
branches swaying in the brightening sun. There also, they ar- 
ranged the roses into bouquets, twining with them the slender 
green-leaved vines which Dale' cut from those trailing about 
them. 

“Miss Wilton,” he began slowly, as he thoughtfully twirled 
a crimson rose in his fingers, “Miss Wilma tells me that you 


GUESTS AT ROSELIN 


165 


have positively refused to take any part in her party. May I 
ask your reason for that decision?’’ He looked up at her as he 
finished. She did not move ; her expression remained un- 
changed. 

“I have no part to take,” said she. 

“No part?” he asked in surprise. “Yes, indeed, you have, 
and hereafter you must take that part. You cannot desert us 
now, Miss Wilton. You owe it to us all.” 

An hour later all the flowers were arranged in the vases, 
and Dale Clinton followed Grace into the little breakfast room, 
where a delicious breakfast was served by old Nan, who later 
remarked, as she busily washed the dishes in the kitchen: 

“Dat air young southe’nah wuz up foh breakfast wif Mistah 
Allington dis heah mo’nin’, an’ Lo’dy, gal, he’s like Miss Ailing- 
ton and Miss Grace — you’d nebbah know he wuz frum de south.” 


166 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXIX 

A RUBY NECKLACE 

The dusky twilight was slowly falling about Roselin as the 
guests gathered in small groups upon the lawn and veranda. 
It was the first day of July and a warm breeze blew gently from 
the south, bearing away with it the sound of merry voices, 
mingled with silvery peals of laughter. For a moment a small, 
dark figure paused at the gate and stood silently listening, then 
slowly it trudged up the walk, with a small package tightly 
clasped in one hand and a book swinging in the other. 

“Mr. Greymore here?” he inquired, hastily grasping his gilt 
trimmed cap as he approached the nearest group. 

“On the veranda, I believe,” replied Wilma carelessly. “It is 
a boy from the village post-office,” she remarked, as the others 
glanced after him with a look of curiosity. 

“ ’Evening,” said the boy, again raising his cap, as he neared 
the stone steps upon which Willard and Genevieve were sitting. 

“Why, hello, Bill! Whom did you say you were looking 
for?” 

For a moment the lad hesitated. 

“Mr. Llewellyn Greymore,” he said, with a broad grin. 

“Alright, Bill; there he is.” Laying one hand on the boy’s 
shoulder, Willard motioned with the other toward a corner of 
the veranda, where Llewellyn and Dale sat upon the rose-cov- 
ered balustrade, near the hammock where Lillian and Grace 
were seated. 

“A package for you, sir. Your signature here, please.” He 
placed the package in Llewellyn’s hand, and holding the book 
toward him, indicated with one finger the place for the signa- 
ture. 

The usual color of Llewellyn’s cheek deepened and slowly it 
mounted to his brow as he placed the small package in his 
pocket and drew forth his fountain pen. A moment later the 
lad was gone; and ere long the flush on Llewellyn’s brow faded, 
but during the remainder of that evening, he was more quiet 


A RUBY NECKLACE 


167 


than he was wont to be. Now and then his thoughts seemed to 
drift quite away from his surroundings to some remote scene of 
the past or future days, then again he would exert himself to 
appear his usual self, but never did he mention the package 
which had come to him by registered mail, and which lay un- 
opened in his pocket. 

The village clock was chiming eleven when Dale Clinton — 
the last of the party to leave the veranda — entered the drawing- 
room. The lights burned low there and at first he did not per- 
ceive Llewellyn’s tall form leaning against the marble mantel, 
his arms folded upon its shining surface. 

*'Grace,” trembled softly on his lips, and the faint vibrations 
of that name reached Dale’s ears. Suddenly he paused; his 
hand grasped the bronze statue at his side. For a moment he 
stood watching the dark figure by the mantel, then with a soft, 
firm step he went back to the veranda. His dark face paled, 
almost visibly, in the moonlight, as he leaned against the marble 
pillar. 

Alas ! ’twas Grace whom Llewellyn loved — the queen, the 
hope of his own heart. He had heard rumors of an engage- 
ment between Llewellyn and Lillian, but ’twas false, for he, too, 
loved Grace. His very posture, his every expression, whispered 
of love for the girl whose name his lips had so tenderly, so lov- 
ingly breathed. No ’twas not for him — Dale Clinton — to claim 
the prize for which he strove. ’Twas lost; forever lost to him; 
for he had, as yet, only partially restored himself in Grace’s 
favor; and with these disturbing thoughts he at last went to his 
room. Once the faces of Grace and Willard had disturbed his 
slumbers, but now, it was Llewellyn’s form that gleamed out 
of the darkness — Llewellyn who should at last win the only girl 
for whom he himself had ever cared. 

A warm, drizzling rain was falling when the guests gathered 
in the dining-room the following morning, and while Llewellyn 
seemed more like his usual self than he had for many days past. 
Dale sat in silence, and immediately after breakfast returned to 
his room. Willard, who was absent as usual, was busily en- 
gaged in finishing a painting in his studio, while Grace, who 
had had breakfast earlier, was arranging fresh flowers in the 
upper rooms. 


168 


ROSELIN 


'‘Mr. Greymore wishes to see you alone this morning, at the 
first convenient moment, Miss Grace,’' said Ellen, the little maid, 
appearing at her door an hour later. 

“Mr. Greymore?” she questioned. “You must be mistaken, 
Ellen, for Mr. Greymore cannot possibly wish to see me.” 

“ ’Twas Mr. Greymore asking for Miss Wilton,” replied the 
maid, with her head poised on one side and her sharp grey eyes 
fixed with a look of admiration upon the young girl. 

“Then tell him he may come to mamma’s sitting-room. I 
shall go down at once. I wonder what he wants,” she added, 
half to herself. 

Ellen stood silent, with her hand upon the bronze knob. 

“Is there nothing I can do for you before I go. Miss Grace?” 
she asked, after a moment. 

“No, thank you, Ellen, only my message to Mr. Greymore,” 
was the reply, and the trim figure of the maid slowly withdrew 
from the room; and with one glance at the fair face reflected 
in the mirror before her, a hasty arrangement of the dark curls 
caressing the pure white brow, Grace hurried down to meet 
Llewellyn. 

He was waiting for her and as she softly — almost noiseless- 
ly — closed the door, she hesitated to admire the tall, stately figure 
before her. He stood in the arch of the small bay-window, look- 
ing out across the lawn in the direction of the lake, upon which 
the sun was now shining. His tall, supple form was bent slightly 
forward, but almost instantly he turned at the sound of her 
light step, and came toward her. For an instant a smile bright- 
ened the finely chiseled features, then it faded; the lines of self- 
repression about the lips and nostrils deepened ; and taking both 
her hands in his he led her to a chair near the window. 

She looked wonderingly at him as he drew one of the gilt 
chairs near her silk upholstered rocker, and her cheek flushed 
as she noticed that the one red rose she had that morning placed 
among the white ones in her mother’s room had found a place 
in the button-hole of his gray sack coat. 

“Lillian and Dale have gone with the others to the lake, since 
the rain ceased, and you must pardon me, Grace, for seizing this 
opportunity for a moment alone with you,” he began, quite 
seriously. “That lawyer claims you the moment you appear 




A RUBY NECKLACE 


169 


and gives no one else a shadow of a chance, but thanks to Lil- 
lian — she has dragged him off to the lake for the morning, in 
spite of his efforts to remain/’ 

He smiled, and Grace replied with an unassumed ease: 

“I shall pardon you, Llewellyn, but I can not understand 
how you could contentedly see Lilliam drag the protesting Mr. 
Clinton off to the lake.” 

“Only for the morning, you see, and I had letters of im- 
portance to write.” The dark eyebrows were slightly lifted ; 
then drawn into almost a straight line across the brow. 

“I have something I wish to ask of you, Grace, and you 
must not refuse to grant it,” he continued in a more serious 
tone, then hesitated; his hand closed over one of hers and the 
brown eyes, shaded by long, dark lashes, looked down into her 
face. 

‘T can hardly refuse until you tell me what you wish me to 
do,” she returned. 

“And even then you cannot refuse. For my sake you must 
not refuse,” was the emphatic reply. “And you will repeat our 
conversation to no one; I trust you, Grace. Sometime I shall 
explain to you my reasons, but until then, no mention of it will 
pass your lips. Do you promise, Grace?” 

“I have no right to listen to that which you would keep from 
everyone else — even Lillian — ^your betrothed. Could you not 
trust her? Can you ask me to keep it from Lillian?” Drawing 
her hand from his warm, tight clasp, she sat straight in her 
chair. 

“This is a matter which concerns fls alone, Grace. No other 
secret would I ask you to keep from Lillian, and I hope we 
shall not, of necessity, need keep this long from our friends, 
but I will trust you, and you must hear me, Grace, even though 
you may, if you will, reveal it to Lillian — to them all.” 

He sat silently, -thoughtfully gazing at the velvet rug at his 
feet for a moment; then raising his eyes to those fastened upon 
him with astonished inquiry, he continued: 

“As a token of our friendship,' in regard for the love Lil- 
lian Allington bears for you, and for other and deeper reasons, 
which I cannot at present explain, even to you, Grace, I wish 
you to accept this gift.” 


170 


ROSELIN 


As he finished he placed a velvet case in her hand, then 
moved to the window, where he stood with folded arms watch- 
ing her. Her eyes followed him, but she did not move. 

“I do not understand you,” said she. 

''Just what I’ve said, Grace, I wish you to open that case 
and tell me, are you pleased with its contents?” 

A moment longer she hesitated, then slowly — almost careless- 
ly — she pressed the golden clasp and there in her hand, on its 
bed of soft green velvet, lay an expensive ruby necklace. Sud- 
denly the room grew dark; one hand tightened its clasp upon 
the velvet case, while the other weakly grasped the arm of the 
chair. But only for a moment did it last. Almost before Llew- 
ellyn could reach her, she was herself again, and the big, brown 
eyes which were raised to his were almost overflowing with 
tears. 

"Take it, Llewellyn,” she said, extending the open case, with 
its crimson gems, toward him. "Do not ask me to accept them, 
for I cannot.” 

Taking a step backward, he stood looking down at her. 

"You cannot accept the necklace?” he repeated, with an air 
of disappointment. "But, Grace, they are yours, and you must 
keep them.” 

"Do you think, Llewellyn, that I will accept that expensive 
necklace as a gift from you? I most sincerely appreciate your 
kindness, but accept them, I cannot.” She arose and placed the 
case on the chair nearest him as she spoke. 

"If you could know the pleasure it affords me, Grace, you 
would not hesitate to accept,” he said, coming up to her and 
taking her hand. "You will at least allow me the privilege of 
fastening them about your neck.” 

"Please do not tempt me,” she replied, drawing away. 

He took the rubies from the case and drew them slowly over 
his fingers. The crimson stones gleamed in the ray of sunlight 
which fell upon them, and Grace stood admiring their superb 
beauty. 

"They are very beautiful — more beautiful than Wilma’s,” she 
said at last. 

"Very nearly like them, I think.” 

"I shall not be disappointed; I shall succeed at last,” he 


A RUBY NECKLACE 


171 


thought, and a pleased smile parted his lips as he fastened them 
about her neck. 

“Listen to me, Grace,’’ he began, standing back to admire the 
beauty of the necklace. “You love those rubies and, for my sake, 
you must keep them and wear them. I shall sometime tell you 
my secret, Grace, and if you do not think it a sufficient reason 
why you should accept the necklace, you may return it; but un- 
til then can you not trust me? Have I ever been to you any- 
thing else than a friend?” 

He came quite close to her now, but she made no reply. Her 
cheeks burned scarlet and her eyes sank beneath his imploring 
gaze. Her slender white fingers clasped the precious rubies. 

“You dare not refuse to grant my only request, Grace.” His 
hand closed over hers. “Keep them, for me, until you have just 
cause for returning them.” 

“If it were only a matter of keeping them for you, Llewellyn, 
I should not refuse; but am I the only person with whom you 
can trust your jewels?” 

She drew herself to her full height and the eyes, which were 
now raised to his, did not waver in their inquiring gaze. 

“You are the one person to whom I wish to trust them,” he 
replied; “and, Grace,” he continued with emphasis, “would you 
force me, by persisting in your refusal, to reveal to you, now, 
the secret which I feel it my duty to keep, for the present, to 
myself ?” 

“Indeed ! I should not listen to you if you were to tell it,” 
she returned, in a voice which ignored the tender, pleading look 
of the eyes following her as she moved across the room, and the 
deepening lines about the lips of the man whose heart was filled 
with a secret which his lips dared not reveal. Slowly he turned 
to the window and silently gazed out across the lawn. She re- 
placed the necklace in its case, then, with her hands still linger- 
ing on the green velvet, she stood looking at him. 

Could she fail to trust him — Llewellyn, whom years before 
had proven himself a friend — Llewellyn, who was to claim Lil- 
lian as his bride before another year had passed — could any- 
one mistrust him? With a soft tread she approached him, and 
gently laying her hand on his arm she said: 

“Yes, Llewellyn, I will keep it; but I shall never wear it.” 


172 


ROSELIN 


“As you like about that, Grace, but in time, I hope you will 
think differently/^ 

“Perhaps, when you tell us your secret ; but until then, 
no one, save myself, shall have an opportunity to admire their 
rare beauty ; for I giye you my promise, Llew^ellyn, the moments 
we have spent here this morning shall be hidden away with the 
rubies.” 

“That is kind of you, Grace; but I do not wish you to hide 
the rubies. I would much rather you would wear them, but I 
trust they will, at least, remind you of my friendship; for you 
may remember, I am always your friend — your — ” he broke off 
abruptly and paused. 

“I had almost forgotten the picnic for this afternoon. You, 
of course, will accompany us?” he asked after a moment’s 
silence? 

“I had scarcely thought of going.” 

“Yes, but you must think of it now, for our party is hardly 
complete without you. Please do not disappoint us, Grace ;” 
then silently pressing both her hands in his, he left her. For a 
moment she stood staring at the door, which closed behind him. 

“How strange that Llewellyn should give this to me,” she 
murmured, sinking into a chair and trying in vain to force back 
the tears of mingled joy and astonishment. 

The precious ruby necklace, for which she had so often 
longed, was at last hers ; but she dared not wear it, for how 
could she explain to the others? Could she tell them that she 
had accepted it from a friend — a young man? And then could 
she refuse to give his name? Ah, no; she must lock the rubies 
away in their velvet case until Llewellyn revealed to her that 
mysterious secret. How a secret of his could affect her accept- 
ance of the necklace she could not guess; but about Llewellyn 
there was something which commanded her respect, her confi- 
dence and her trust. She had promised, and with Grace Wilton 
a promise was never broken. 


WILLARD'S PAINTING 


173 


CHAPTER XXX 

WILLARD’S PAINTING 

Ere the noon hour came the dark clouds which had been 
hovering above the western horizon, gradually growing heavier 
and darker, had begun their steady march in the path of those 
which had hidden the sun during the morning hours, and the 
low rumble of distant thunder warned the young people that 
their picnic must be given up for that afternoon. 

Wilma, though thoroughly angry, contented herself by tak- 
ing the girls to her room, immediately after dinner, to see the 
family jewels, while the boys gathered in the library where 
Willard displayed a collection of his latest sketches and a few 
paintings. 

The rain had just begun falling, when Lillian and Grace, who 
had been to the cottage, came in with Genevieve, all three faces 
shining from the exercise; and shaking the drops of water from 
hair and shoulders, they appeared at the library door, and were 
met by a chorus of exclamations from within. 

*T declare, you girls don’t look the least bit disappointed 
about the picnic,” was Llewellyn’s reproachful remark. 

‘And I think we can say the same of you. You look quite 
comfortable and contented here,” Genevieve returned. 

“Gee ! who could fail to be contented when one has such an 
art gallery displayed for one’s entertainment?” Dale asked in 
reply. 

“Indeed ; ’tis far more interesting than many picnics,” was 
Mr. Bartell’s enthusiastic remark. 

“And is it not glorious to watch the rain fall and know that 
everyone is pleased?” 

“I’m thinking you will find a different atmosphere on the 
second floor, though, Lillian,” laughed her brother. 

“Unless, perhaps they, too, have found something of more 
interest than picnics,” Llewellyn broke in. 

“I think we shall investigate, at least,” Lillian said, as they 


174 


ROSELIN 


withdrew from the room, while Willard’s voice called after 
them. 

They found Marie, Alice, Helen and Wilma surrounded by 
sparkling gems. The massive cases were empty and upon the 
mahogany table lay a profusion of diamonds, pearls, amethysts 
and other precious stones, mingled with gold and silver, and the 
case containing Wilma’s jewels set in the midst of them. Grace 
only glanced at the brilliant array, the splendor of which she 
had never before seen, and moVed on to her own room where 
she looked at her own small collection of inexpensive jewels 
and again caressed, with loving fingers, the brilliant rubies which 
were her only valuable jewels. 

“Oh ! I’m glad we came, girls,” exclaimed Lillian, turning 
around to find only Genevieve at her side. “You have never 
seen our family jewels have you, Genevieve? Some of them 
have been worn by my great-great-great-grandmother, and each 
one has its own history. Dear me, I wish I could remember 
them all. Mamma often told them to me, and I can remember 
many,” she went on, taking up one after another of the jewels, 
with a word as to their value or the story with which they were 
connected. Wilma watched them for awhile, then went on talk- 
ing with the others, only now and then glancing toward her sis- 
ter and Genevieve. 

“They are all so beautiful; so grand,” Genevieve exclaimed, 
with quiet admiration, as Lillian placed a ruby brooch on the 
table. 

“You are like Grace, I see you, too, like rubies. You have 
seen Wilma’s necklace, I know,” Lillian said, taking it from the 
case; “but everyone admires it so much, I know you won’t mind 
seeing it again. Grace has always wanted one like it, but, owing 
to their expensive value, papa has refused to get it for her.” 
She fastened the rubies around Genevieve’s slender, white throat 
as she finished. “They are quite becoming,” she exclaimed joy- 
fully, standing back to admire them. 

Wilma looked up with a frown as her sister’s words reached 
her. 

“I admire rubies very much,” Lillian continued; “but for my- 
self, I prefer this slender thread of pearls, which was given to 
mamma by her grandmother, years ago.” 


WILLARD’S PAINTING 


175 


She wound the pearls among her golden curls, bending her 
head before the mirror to see the effect, while Genevieve un- 
fastened the clasp, took the necklace from her own neck, and 
carefully placed it in a red heap on the table, among the other 
. stones of contrasting color, and turned again to Lillian. 

“Do you like them?’’ Lillian asked, turning to the girls, who 
were watching her. “I think there is nothing more beautiful 
than a pale, delicate little pearl.” 

“Only your own curls, Lillies and pearls, and golden curls 
are all for you, Lillian,” Alice Mandel said, shaking back her 
auburn locks. 

They watched Wilma as she began replacing the jewels in 
their cases, her arms gleaming white beneath the lacy ruffles of 
her short sleeves; then they left her and went down to the li- 
brary where Willard was just gathering up his sketches. 

“Are you really going to put them away without showing 
them to me?” Marie asked, coming up to him with a pretty pout. 

“Certainly not, if you wish to see them,” he returned, pre- 
paring to place them again on the table. 

“Come, let us take them to the music-room,” she said, has- 
tily touching his arm. “Perhaps the young men will not care 
to see them again;” and with her hand still lingering upon his 
arm, they left the room. 

“I can enjoy them so much more when I have them all to 
myself, you know; and I do love to listen while you explain 
your drawings,” she said as he seated himself at her side and 
placed in her soft, plump hands the first of the drawings. 

Many were the questions she asked, and often, at her re- 
quest he would repeat the explanation of some exceedingly in- 
teresting picture. She was quite profuse with her appreciation 
of his art, and, by her flattery and constant efforts to draw him 
out on the many interesting points of the subject, she man- 
aged to keep him at her side for hours. More sketches and 
other paintings were brought down from the studio and a pro- 
longed explanation of each was given to the enthusiastic Marie, 
and the lips of the young artist were parted by smiles of ap- 
preciation, as compliment after compliment was poured out upon 
his work. It was almost time for supper before she permitted 
him to leave her; then she hurried to her room where Clarice 
was already waiting to arrange her toilet. 


176 


ROSELIN 


Genevieve was just leaving the house, when Willard called 
to her. *‘Are you in a great hurry, Genevieve?’’ 

“Yes, rather,” she said, hesitatingly. 

“I want to show you something in the studio, if you have 
time. We’ll take time for these some other day,” he said slight- 
ly swinging the roll of sketches toward her. “Come, Gene- 
vieve,” he added; “we will just have time before supper.” Hes- 
itatingly, she turned back, and followed him to the studio. It 
was the first time she had been admitted, and she looked about 
her with interest. Upon the table lay piles of black and white 
sketches. Some of them were scattered about over it and a 
few books were strewn among them. A long black curtain was 
drawn over the recently finished painting which still stood upon 
the easel at the center of the room, and before it was the low 
chair Willard had used that morning. Upon the wall were a 
number of pictures, some of which she had seen before. Wil- 
lard began straightening up the scattered books and sketches, 
while Genevieve stood looking at her surroundings, then in si- 
lence she began to view one after another of the paintings hang- 
ing upon the walls. Willard did not disturb her, but carefully 
he watched every movement. Not one change of the expressive 
face escaped him. He read there her silent admiration, her de- 
light, and her appreciation. 

“They are all beautiful, magnificent !” she exclaimed, turning, 
at last, to him. 

“And yet, that is not what I brought you here to see,” he re- 
turned, smiling at her. 

“Something still more wonderful?” she asked, with childlike 
simplicity. 

Her rosy lips were parted with eager expectation as he led 
her to the curtained easel. 

“You are to be the first to see this picture, Genevieve, for I 
painted it especially for you, and upon it I have put my most 
skillful efforts,” he said, looking down into the surprised face 
raised to his. “It was your wish to see my mind’s picture upon 
canvas, Genevieve, though perhaps you have forgotten ; but here 
it is at last. I put the last touch to it this morning,” he added, 
as he drew aside the heavy curtain and displayed a magnificent 
painting, beneath which was written, “AT SCHOOL TO- 
GETHER.” 


WILLARD^S PAINTING 


177 


It was a picture of a man and a maiden standing before a 
huge bank of rhododendrons. Scattered upon the grass at their 
feet were a number of books, one of which lay open, as if it 
had just fallen upon the bank where the girl had recently been 
sitting. Now, apparently, all thoughts of her studies had flown, 
and her fair, young face, radiant with smiles, was raised to the 
one bending above her. A faint, rosy color touched the per- 
fectly moulded cheek and the soft waves of dark hair, which 
was done in a soft coil at the back of the head, covered all but 
the tip of a small rosy ear. His left arm was around her waist, 
while hers rested upon his shoulder, its round whiteness show- 
ing plainly against the dark grey of his coat. Her right hand 
was clasped in his. ^Twas a beautiful picture, with her sweet 
innocent face raised to his, her dainty blue frock contrasting so 
beautifully with the green and white background, and the small 
black slippers showing beneath its hem. 

Genevieve stood silently looking at it. There was something 
about the girl, in both style of hair and dress, which reminded 
her of herself, and her dark eyes turned inquiringly to Willard. 

“Do you remember?” he asked. “It represents Genevieve 
Layton and myself as I wished it to be during the first year of 
your schooling at Baltimore — all flowers, sunshine and smiles. 
I promised I would paint it for you, Genevieve, and I have kept 
that promise.” 

Genevieve looked at him in astonishment, then her eyes went 
back to the picture. 

“Yes, I remember,” she said. “It was only a passing thought 
and I never really expected to see it — this wonderful painting 
of your mind’s picture.” 

“That wish of yours gave me a grand inspiration, Genevieve, 
and although it was years afterward that I began this picture, 
I was always thinking and studying how I could, in one paint- 
ing, picture that whole year as I had wished it to be. I had a 
resolute determination to make the picture and at last I decided 
on this ; but long before the brush had touched the canvas, I had 
given it this name.” He touched the words beneath the paint- 
ing and turning again to Genevieve, continued : “I am satisfied, 
Genevieve, with my efforts ; it is one of the best of my paint- 
ings, although I hope for far greater things in the future.” 


12 


178 


ROSELIN 


“And you shall certainly attain them, Willard; I have every 
confidence in your art; though, for myself, I cannot realize a 
painting more wonderful than this/^ 

“You gave me the thought, Genevieve, and I shall give you 
the picture. You, I think, can appreciate it more than anyone 
else, for you know and can understand the whole story, and I 
painted it for you.’’ 

“Me, Willard?” she asked, turning quickly from him to hide 
the tears which suddenly filled her eyes. 

He made no reply, but going to the long, low bookcase, he 
took a key from his pocket, opened a drawer, and taking from 
it a smaller picture, placed it upon the easel in front of the 
painting. 

“Yes, Genevieve, but this one I shall keep for myself,” he 
said, turning her about to face the easel. 

“Me!” she exclaimed, again, as her eyes fell upon the paint- 
ing Willard had made of her three years before, when she was 
a girl of twenty. No other words fell from her lips, for, with 
a sudden impulse, Willard drew her up to his heart and held 
her there. 

“And, Genevieve, there is something else you must give me!” 
he exclaimed, but he stopped short, for the door opened on the 
instant and Wilma, clad in a soft rose silk, appeared, a scornful 
frown furrowing her brow as she saw the two figures in such 
close proximity to each other. 

Genevieve started and trembled away from the detaining 
arms, and her cheeks flushed scarlet. In an instant the heavy 
curtain was drawn over the easel, but the painting had not es- 
caped Wilma’s searching gaze ; and a scornful, “Ah !” fell from 
her lips as her brother turned toward her. 

“Have you forgotten that we are waiting for you in the din- 
ing-room,” she asked in cold, icy tones. “You will please come 
at once,” she commanded. 

Genevieve hastily turned from the room and Willard fol- 
lowed, holding the door open for his haughty sister and locking 
it behind her, and with an air of impatience she placed her hand 
on his sleeve as Genevieve quietly thanked him for showing her 
the pictures and left them. 


WILLARD’S PAINTING 


179 


*‘The ^pictures/ indeed!’’ Wilma repeated scornfully. “It was 
I who saw the real, life-sized, moving picture, and I presume it 
was that she enjoyed so much,” she sneered. 

“Wilma, you are talking of things of which you know noth- 
ing, and you saw what you had no right to see and have no 
right to repeat. Do you understand?” He stopped short and 
placed his hand upon her shoulder. 

“I’m neither blind nor deaf,” she retorted. 

“I never knew you to enter my studio so unceremoniously, 
Wilma,” he continued. “May I ask you why you did it this 
evening ?” 

“You may not,” she returned, almost before he had finished 
the sentence, and haughtily shaking his hand from her shoulder 
she whirled from the room like a small cyclone. 


180 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXXI 

THE PATH OF FATE 

Even the thought of the scene in the studio brought the hot 
blood rushing to Genevieve’s cheeks and brow. She knew what 
it was Willard would have said to her, and with a quickly beat- 
ing heart she tried to think what might have been, had he told 
her of the love she was sure he bore for her; but it was all 
passed now — that one short moment of breathless bliss. *‘Will it 
ever be repeated?” she wondered, and the sad, yearning heart 
sank low; the crimson flush died from her cheeks. Genevieve 
Layton had learned to love. She had always thought of herself 
as only a business woman, but during the few days of this sum- 
mer vacation, she had learned that friendship, alone, could no 
longer exist between Willard Allington and herself ; but the hos- 
tile Wilma would always stand between them as she had done 
that evening in the studio, she thought; for now that she had 
heard his words, had seen his arms around her, she would never 
cease to darken her slightest hope. 

‘T have given no one a cause to believe that Willard’s love 
is returned,” her thoughts continued; '‘and now, I shall not pur- 
posely avoid him, but I certainly shall not throw myself in his 
way by continually visiting Roselin. If he wishes to see me, 
he must come to me; arid if he does not come, he shall never 
know of the pain it costs me.” 

With this resolution, she entered the tiny kitchen; and ten- 
derly kissing her mother, she whispered to her of her intentions 
to spend the remaining days of her vacation at home. 

Much to Genevieve’s surprise, a wagon came from Roselin, 
quite early the following morning, bringing the painting and a 
note from Willard, saying he would have much preferred bring- 
ing the picture himself, but it was quite impossible as the girls 
had decided to give an all-day picnic, and urgently requesting 
her to accompany them. She read it over and over, then stood 
looking at the painting, wondering what her reply should be; 
and at last, writing a short note, thanking him for both painting 


THE PATH OF FATE 


181 


and invitation, but refusing the latter, she gave it to the boy, 
who was waiting, and with tears flowing down her cheeks, stood 
watching him as he turned the horses toward Roselin. 

“Any reply?’' asked Willard, as Ned came up the drive. 

“Yep,” returned the boy, taking the dainty envelope from his 
pocket. 

Willard took it and hurried to the studio, where, buried in 
the depths of a leather rocker, he opened it. 

“The deuce ! She can’t go,” he exclaimed, angrily crushing it 
in his hand as he arose. “ ’Tis no more than I expected, after 
last night. She’ll never want to face Wilma again, and I can’t 
blame her, knowing Wilma as I do. But she will find that her 
brother isn’t so easily entangled in her snares !” 

He strode up and down the room with his hands deep in his 
pockets. “Marie Carrelton ! Marie, indeed ! I almost hate her,” 
he exclaimed, stopping before the table and bringing his fist 
down emphatically upon it. “No picnic for me,” he declared, 
continuing his march. “I’ll never do it. I shall see Genevieve 
before yonder sun is set; I have waited long, and now I must 
know my fate; and the wife of Willard Allington shall never 
bear the taunts and scorn of a haughty sister-in-law.” 

“Hurry up, Allington,” called a voice; and throwing open the 
door Willard saw Llewellyn hurrying down the hall. 

“I’m not going,” he called after him. 

“What? Not going?” Llewellyn turned about and faced him. 
“How is that? Not starting another picture are you?” 

“No, not that, but I can’t go. Hope you have a great day, 
Greymore.” 

“We are sure of that, and you may be sorry that you are not 
with us; especially if Genevieve joins us. Lillian and Grace 
have gone for her now.” 

For a moment Willard hesitated, then replied : “No, Llew- 
ellyn, I’m not going. I really do not care for picnics.” 

“All right, old fellow. I’ll tell you all about it tonight any- 
way;” and Llewellyn swung his silk cap above his head as he 
disappeared down the stairs. 

It was near the middle of the afternoon when Willard, choos- 
ing the path leading past the lake, turned his hurried footsteps 
toward the cottage. Everything was silent about the lake, upon 


182 


ROSELIN 


which the sun was shining with a dazzling brightness, but the 
trees cast their shadows across the path, almost to the water’s 
edge. Willard walked along, his eyes bent upon the grass at his 
feet, until suddenly looking up, he caught sight of a pink dress 
fluttering between the trunks of the trees, and with swift steps 
he turned from the path and entered the woods, there to find 
Genevieve, leisurely strolling about the velvety, wooded slopes, 

“Well, Genevieve, I’m lucky to have found you here,” he said, 
coming up to her. 

“Willard Allington!” she exclaimed slightly starting: “I 
didn’t know you were about the place. How came you here? 
I thought you were picnicking today.” Her tone was half re- 
proachful and her manner so different from the Genevieve he 
had come to woo, that he crushed down the intense longing to 
take her at once in his arms, and replied: 

“Not I ! your decision was mine, Genevieve.” 

He saw the delicate flush mount to her brow, and her eyes 
fell as he continued : “Do you know, Genevieve, that picnics and 
parties are horrid, infestive things when your love is not there?” 

She made no reply and taking both of her hands, he led her 
to the old moss-covered rustic seat against the huge old oak 
near by and, seating her there, bent over her until his lips 
touched the smooth forehead. Neither of them heard the foot- 
steps upon the grass not far away, hushed by the gentle breeze 
murmuring softly among the leaves above them, and sitting 
down at her side, with her hands still clasped in his, he con- 
tinued : “My love was not going, Genevieve, and with her my 
heart always remains. Can you reproach me, Genevieve, for re- 
fusing to join the others, when you yourself had refused; can 
you reproach me for disturbing your solitary stroll?” he asked 
tenderly, with his eager face bent close to the dark hair of the 
girl whose face was turned from him. 

At that moment there was a voice near by, and Willard 
arose to his feet just as Mr. Allington appeared. Raising his 
hat to Genevieve, he turned to his son : “I have brought Mr. 
J. F. Ancille, of Boston, out from the village to see your latest 
pictures, Willard. He has waited some time now, so please 
come at once. I’m sure Miss Genevieve will excuse you and 
pardon me for interrupting.” 


THE PATH OF FATE 


183 


^‘My latest picture is not for sale; you may tell Mr. Aiicille.” 
Willard sat down again with an air of ease. 

''Come, Willard, you must at least show him something. He 
is greatly interested in your work.’’ Mr. Allington’s voice had 
in it a stern command and Willard reluctantly arose and fol- 
lowed him, leaving Genevieve sitting alone on the old moss- 
covered bench. 

Almost mechanically he displayed his paintings, for ever be- 
fore him was the picture of Genevieve, and in his heart was a 
wild desire to rush from the room, down to the lake shore and 
the green woods, and to be once more at her side. Presently 
Mr. Allington arose from his chair. 

"Willard,” he said, "I shall leave Mr. Ancille with you and 
you may bring him to the office. Will you do that?” he asked, 
for Willard did not reply. 

"Certainly I shall bring him,” he said, noting the anxious, 
annoyed look upon his father’s face as he left the room. 

Mr. Allington’s eyes had been opened and, with a slow step, 
he walked back to the office, trying in vain to believe that all he 
had seen and heard was but a dream. Was it possible that his 
son — his only son — had fallen in love — gradually but surely fal- 
len in love with the poor country girl, who was so far beneath 
him? Had his eyes really seen his son kissing the brow of this 
girl of poverty, or was it only his disturbing fancies. He had 
reached Roselin soon after Willard had left the house and, upon 
hearing from the servants that he had gone to the lake, he, too, 
started in that direction just in time to see Willard turn from 
the path and enter the woods. He had followed, and hesitating 
within the border of the timber land, he had heard his son’s 
loving words, had heard the tender caressing accent of each and 
seen his lover-like attitude. All this was a new phase of affairs 
to Mr. Allington, who, for some time past, had thought of 
Marie — the lovely heiress and only child of the wealthy Widow 
Carrelton — the petted and spoiled child of fashion — as his future 
daughter-in-law. But Genevieve Layton — a farmer’s daughter; 
poor and obscure; unknown to society — only a book-keeper, who 
had made her own way thus far through life — as the wife of his 
son? Never! 

"He shall not so easily give up Marie,” Mr. Allington said, 


184 


ROSELIN 


busying himself about the office. *^So long as my influence can 
prevail upon my son, he shall never marry Genevieve.” 

When Willard came to the office he gave him some work to 
do, which kept him busy until Mr. Ancille left them ; then laying 
his hand on his shoulder he began: “As you know, Willard, I 
found you alone with Genevieve Layton, and am I mistaken 
when I say you have given the girl the impression that you are 
in love with her?” 

Willard looked up in surprise. 

“No, sir, you are not mistaken,” he answered. 

“I thought not; I thought not,” Mr. Allington said, sitting 
down facing his son. “I do not wish you to deceive the girl, 
Willard, and I am sorry you have given her cause to think that 
you really love her, for, being a country girl, so unused to the 
ways of the world, she may consider your words of love as good 
as a proposal. She, no doubt, thinks more of them than you 
think for; and while I know that my son is higher minded — 
looking for higher, more noble things — she, no doubt, herself 
already in love, will scarcely give that thought a consideration.” 

“Nor is it worth considering,” burst forth Willard, his face 
flushed with indignation. “You are very much mistaken, father; 
I know of nothing higher, more noble than Genevieve Layton. 
I have never thought to deceive her.” 

“But, Willard, as one in your social standing — a successful 
artist, belonging to one of the best families in New England — 
can you not think of another girl who would be better fitted for 
the responsibilities which would fall upon the wife of Willard 
Allington ? Could you proudly introduce this book-keeper to 
Boston society as your wife?” 

“Yes, gladly, proudly, would I introduce her to kings and 
queens as my wife.” 

“Willard, my son! has it gone thus far?” 

“Yes, sir, thus far; and, with Genevieve’s consent, it may 
some day go farther, for I know no other more noble, sweet, 
pure and true — no one more fitted to become my wife than 
Genevieve Layton.” 

Mr. Allington moved uneasily in his chair and Willard, with 
his hands clasped behind his head, leaned back comfortably, 
watching his father’s agitation. Presently Mr. Allington arose 


THE PATH OF FATE 


185 


and after a few turns up and down the room, stopped again with 
his hand upon the young man’s shoulder. 

“Then, Willard, you are actually contemplating a marriage 
with this girl?” he asked. 

“I am,” was the impatient reply. 

“Then listen to me. Take an older man’s advice — the advice 
of your father — and give up all foolish thought of her. Think 
of your noble ancestors — of whom you are in every way 
worthy — not one of them, in the history of the Allingtons, was 
ever wed to poverty.” 

Mr. Allington became slightly agitated as he thought of his 
own marriage with Evelyn Wilton, which had, to a certain de- 
gree, violated that rule, but hurriedly he continued : “Think of 
other things beside sentimental love, Willard, and give me your 
promise to forget that you have ever loved Genevieve Layton.” 

“Forget that I love Genevieve? Not so long as there is a 
hope of winning her shall I forget. I have loved her always, 
and even when the last hope has vanished, I shall not cease to 
love her.” He arose, and angrily shaking the hand from his 
shoulder started from the office. 

“Do nothing rash until you can assure yourself that you will 
be satisfied with your lot,” his father’s stern voice called after 
him, but scarcely heeding the words, he rushed on. 

“Bring supper to the studio,” he snapped to Ellen, whom he 
met as he entered the hall at Roselin. His manner was usually 
kind when speaking to the servants, and now, the little maid 
looked after him in astonishment as he sprang up the stairs — 
two steps at a time — and locked himself in the studio. 

When the others arrived — a jolly party, though somewhat 
tired after their day’s outing — Mr. Allington was sitting alone 
on the veranda, and as they came up to him Lillian bent over 
him, tenderly kissing the furrowed brow and murmuring: “Poor 
papa, you have been working so hard today that you are all 
tired out. Dinner tonight at eight? You thoughtful dear; I’m 
glad you’ve ordered it late, for even then I shall have to hurry. 
Wilma and Marie take all of Clarice’s time, and when Ellen 
isn’t helping Helen or Alice, she is always busy with something 
else; but really, I don’t mind,” and kissing him again, she left 
him and followed the other girls; but tonight he needed more 


186 


ROSELIN 


than Lillian’s sympathetic caresses to clear the frown from his 
brow, the fear from his mind. He needed Wilma’s help more 
than he had ever needed it before. She would help him to pre- 
vent the undesirable marriage of his son and do all in her power 
to bring about an alliance between Willard and Marie; and with 
this determination, he called her to him, in his wife’s sitting- 
room, for there he was sure of perfect privacy. As they en- 
tered, Grace, who had been sole mistress of the little room since 
her mother’s departure, arose from her chair, her face very 
white and her hands pressed to her throbbing temples. 

“You will leave us alone, Grace, and dress at once for din- 
ner,” Wilma said, as if addressing a servant, and Grace moved 
slowly toward the door. 

“I think I shall not come down to dinner tonight,” was the 
low reply. 

All the beauty had fled from her face and with a racking 
headache she could not appear as well as usual and this one 
thought decided Wilma. 

“All the servants will be engaged tonight,” she said, with 
authority, “so we shall expect you to dinner at eight. At any 
other time you may keep your room but tonight — ;” she turned 
to her father who added: “All picnickers should be able to be 
present at dinner, Grace.” 

“Very well,” was the low reply, and turning from the room, 
she left father and daughter alone. 

Hurriedly, Mr. Allington repeated all he had seen and heard 
that afternoon, told of his fears and of Willard’s conduct, and 
then turned to Wilma for her help and her sympathy. She 
would gladly do all she could to prevent a marriage between 
her brother and Genevieve, but sympathy for her father, she 
had none. 

“I have known all along how it would end, and I have done 
everything in my power to save Willard,” she said. “I shall 
never give up to this low marriage, so long as I can prevent it. 
But you, papa, have wilfully and apparently with your eyes open, 
brought this girl — to whom you so seriously object as a daugh- 
ter-in-law of yours — into your home and helped to educate her 
with your own children — with their private teacher. You have 
given her the basis upon which to build an education and, in a 


THE PATH OF FATE 


187 


devious way, encouraged your son’s daily association with her, 
his many attentions, therefore his love for her and at last his 
marriage.” 

This Mr. Allington could not deny but all this he had done 
unintentionally, never for a moment dreaming that it was pos- 
sible for his son — an Allington — to fall in love with Genevieve 
Layton. 

‘‘Your own marriage, too, is accountable for this,” Wilma 
went on. “Had you never brought Grace Wilton” (this in 
scornful tones) “to Roselin, this crisis might never have come. 
It is through her intimacy with Grace that she has been such a 
continual visitor. You were married to poverty; can you ex- 
pect anything better of your son?” she said, taunting him with 
his own marriage. 

“But, Wilma! my marriage was different; quite different. 
Mrs. Allington was never a daughter of poverty. Hers was 
only a fortune lost.” 

“But Grace, Grace, what can you say for her? A child of 
fortune? No! if we are at last defeated and Genevieve Layton 
becomes Genevieve Allington, I shall lay the blame at Grace 
Wilton’s feet.” 

Mr. Allington believed that Wilma spoke truthfully and his 
love for Grace, which had grown at first but which had for the 
last years been silently, gradually, and without a cause, ebbing, 
now died a violent death, and a feeling of something akin to 
hatred for his wife’s child took its place. 

“Willard shall never marry Genevieve Layton so long as his 
father has the power to prevent it,” he declared, throwing a 
book down upon the table with a force which upset the vase of 
roses in the center; but with no thought of the water soaking 
the burnt leather cover and dripping down upon the velvet rug, 
he and Wilma planned together to keep Genevieve from Rose- 
lin, and Willard, as much as possible, within the halo of Marie 
Carrelton’s charms. Not that Mr. Allington did not like Gene- 
vieve and approve of her courage, her strength of character, 
her home and school training. Margaret Allington — the mother 
of his children — and Evelyn — his living wife — had both loved 
Mrs. Layton and approved of her Christian character; but he did 
not stop to think of all these things. The great problem of 
wealth stood out before them. 


188 


ROSELIN 


‘‘Our purpose shall be accomplished if we can only prevent 
an engagement before the end of Genevieve’s vacation,” Wilma 
said. “I shall keep Marie for a few weeks longer, if possible, 
and, as my brother, Willard will — for courtesy’s sake — spend 
much of his time with her, and in this way an engagement may 
be brought about. Even an engagement with Genevieve may be 
easily broken, when Willard realizes that a marriage with her 
would mean that he must share her life, her poverty, and her 
friends,” Wilma said, assuringly, as she left her father and hur- 
ried away to dress for dinner; but the delay of that engagement 
was accomplished in a far different way from the one they had 
planned. Fate had already marked out the path — the hard cruel 
hand of fate. 

“Dress my hair as becomingly as possible, Clarice,” she said 
to the maid. “I’m quite tired this evening and Louis does so 
hate to see a worn look upon a young woman’s face — especially 
mine — that you must do something to atone for it. Put this red 
rose in my hair and rub my cheeks with cologne; and, Clarice, 
do hurry. I’ll put on that white dress of net over silk, I think, 
for I always look fresh in it, and with a red rose at my belt 
and rubies, it will do very well for tonight.” 

Clarice brought the dress from the wardrobe and soon her 
young mistress was clad in its soft whiteness, her cheeks of a 
delicate pink, a cluster of crimson roses at her belt and another 
in the coils of her black hair. A perfect queen she was as she 
stood looking at her figure reflected in the long mirror. Only 
one thing was lacking — her ruby necklace. With the crimson 
stones surrounding her white throat, Louis could not fail to be 
pleased with her toilet, but without them — . She turned to the 
case containing her jewels and unlocked it. With her eyes upon 
the roses at her belt, she reached forth her white hand for the 
necklace. Her fingers touched the soft silk in the corner of the 
case where the rubies always lay, but they were not there. She 
raised her eyes and carefully searched among the other jewels, 
turning them out in a mingled mass upon the table. Clarice 
came to her assistance but the necklace was not there. 

“I have certainly put them in the wrong case,” she said, re- 
calling the afternoon before, when she had opened the family 
jewel cases. “It is so exasperating, that they should be missing 


THE PATH OF FATE 


189 


at this time, when I must have them. I will search every case 
before dinner, if necessary; I’ll never go down in this white 
dress without them,” she declared, as with Clarice’s help, she 
examined the cases, one after another. Yet the ruby necklace 
was no place to be found. ^'Send Miss Carrelton and Lillian 
to me at once, Clarice,” Wilma sat down in perfect bewilder- 
ment. “Oh ! girls, I can’t find my necklace ! What in the world 
shall I do !” she exclaimed, as Marie and Lillian came in. 

“Perhaps it is in one of the other cases,” said Lillian. 

“It is not, for Clarice and I have searched them all.” 

“Perhaps they are somewhere about the room, Wilma,” Marie 
suggested. “Have you had them today?” 

“No, not since yesterday, when I had them here with all the 
jewels.” 

Marie’s eyebrows were slightly elevated as she joined in the 
search with Lillian. Every corner, every possible place about 
the room was investigated, but the necklace was not found. 

“Is it possible that Miss Layton could be so covetous?” Marie 
leaned her plump cheek upon her hand, her elbow resting upon 
the table, and a meaning glance accompanied the slowly spoken 
words. 

“Genevieve! Never!” Lillian exclaimed, her eyes dark with 
excitement; but her face grew pale, her breath came quick and 
fast as Marie recalled the scene among the jewels, and the look 
of admiration bestowed upon the rubies by Genevieve. 

“Then Lillian fastened them about her neck,” she said; 
“and ,” here she paused. 

“And I haven’t seen them since !” Wilma finished, in a burst 
of indignation. 

For a moment the three girls looked at each other, each one 
silently, secretly, searching in her own heart for some other clue 
to the mystery of the missing necklace, but there was no other 
solution. 'None of them had seen the necklace after it had been 
fastened about Genevieve’s neck, and although, for the first time 
in her life, Wilma searched for an excuse for Genevieve, she 
could find none. Quickly the news circulated through the fam- 
ily, guests and servants. Genevieve Layton had stolen Wilma’s 
ruby necklace. All evidence was against her and only two per- 
sons in the house, who heard the story, disbelieved it. Those 


190 


ROSELIN 


two were Llewellyn and Willard ; but the former wavered in his 
trust when he saw how Lillian was affected. 

‘‘I have always absolutely trusted Genevieve and now that 
she should so deceive me/’ she cried with her white face hidden 
against his shoulder. 

“Perhaps we are all mistaken, darling. Genevieve may be 
quite innocent.” 

“Oh, if there was the least shadow of a doubt, how I should 
cling to it, but there is not; there is not/’ was the passionate 
reply. 

“Come, dear, the last dinner bell is ringing,” he said, gently 
wiping away the tears, but with an impatient gesture she drew 
away from him. 

“I shall not go down, tonight,” she said. “Send Ellen to me 
please, Llewellyn.” 

“Good-night, darling,” he said bending over her. 

At this moment there was a far different scene in the studio 
where Wilma had carried the news to Willard. 

“I do not believe a word of what you have been saying, 
Wilma Allington !” burst contemptuously from his lips as Wil- 
ma finished her story. 

“I do not ask you to take my word for it, Willard. You may 
ask Helen or Alice; ask Marie; ask Lillian! I have not wav- 
ered from the truth, I am as much surprised as you are, Wil- 
lard, but I do not shrink from the truth. The others will tell 
you the same story.” 

“Lillian will not tell me this ! Lillian call Genevieve a thief ?” 
Willard’s eyes flashed. 

“Yes, Willard, she will tell you the very same!” 

“Nevertheless I shall not believe it until I have heard it from 
Genevieve’s own lips !” he stormed. 

“Do you think she will acknowledge her guilt?” Wilma asked 
calmly. 

“No!” he shouted; “for she is not guilty! I shall do all I 
can to prove her innocence, and, Wilma,” he said sternly, laying 
a hand upon each shoulder and facing her, “do not let me hear 
one sneering remark, one word against Genevieve fall from 
your lips. In fact, refrain from all mention of this affair, 
whether in my presence or not. What you know, keep to your- 


THE PATH OF FATE 


191 


self, only when speaking to me in private. Tell the others, who 
have already heard the story, to hold their tongues, for if I 
hear one word — one word, Wilma — you will repent it ! Do you 
understand 

‘T think I do,’' Wilma replied, as the grasp upon her shoul- 
der tightened. 

“Then mind what I tell you.” 

“I have no desire to communicate the news,” Wilma re- 
turned, with an elevated chin; “and I’ll do my best, for your 
sake, to quiet it.” 

“Yes, and for your own sake,” Willard called after her as she 
turned from the room. 

Thus it was hushed up, among both guests and servants, and 
Grace, who came down to dinner, her face still white, her head 
still aching, knew nothing about the missing necklace; although 
she wondered at the delay of dinner, the quiet, anxious faces of 
the others, and at Lillian’s and Willard’s absence. 


192 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXXII 

GENEVIEVE ACCUSED 

Immediately after breakfast, which was finished in silence, 
the following morning (neither Wilma nor Mr. Allington being 
present) Willard went to his father’s room. 

“Father, do you, too, believe the story which Wilma tells in 
connection with the missing necklace?” he asked bluntly, as the 
door opened and he faced both Mr. Allington and Wilma. 

“I should be sorry to misjudge her, Willard, but I see no 
cause for doubting the story,” Mr. Allington said slowly. 

“I doubt it; I disbelieve it!” Willard returned emphatically. 

“You doubt the truth of your sister’s words; you disbelieve 
your own sister?” Wilma arose with dark flashing eyes, and 
taking a step toward him declared : “I’ll prove it 1 If Genevieve 
Layton can say a word in her own defense. I’ll gladly listen to 
it; if she can prove herself innocent. I’ll gladly say, ‘She is not 
guilty.’ ” 

“Heavens ! you think she cannot clear herself of this accusa- 
tion? I dare say, she could easily shatter this story and, if it is 
in my power, it shall be shattered,” Willard returned. 

“I think it best to see Genevieve about this matter,” inter- 
rupted Mr. Allington. “I shall go to the cottage with Wilma 
Ihis morning, Willard, and this affair shall be straightened, if 
possible. Perhaps she can at least give us some clue to the 
mystery.” 

“I trust you will have success !” exclaimed Willard, hastily 
leaving the room, and Mr. Allington turned to Wilma with a 
smile. 

“Yes, Wilma, you should gladly give up a dozen necklaces 
to save your brother from this marriage. Although he may 
doubt the truth of the story, he will never think of a marriage 
with a girl who cannot prove her innocence.” 

“But if she should prove herself innocent, papa?” 

“If she is innocent, we must follow our former course,” he 


GENEVIEVE ACCUSED 


193 


replied, with a darkening brow. “Be ready at ten, Wilma,’* he 
added, as she, too, left him. 

Shortly after ten they reached the cottage. It was a picture 
of homely comfort — the small brown cottage with its garden of 
flowers at the right, its neatly kept lawn, with the narrow path 
leading up to the door, and the wide spreading maple at the left. 
Only a few minutes* before Willard had arrived; and now, as 
Wilma and his father came in, he arose, and standing behind the 
chair, looked at Genevieve, with a pitying gaze. A look of sur- 
prise made its transient passage across her expressive face, but 
there was no guilt written upon it. It was as pure, as fair, as 
innocent, as the half-blown rosebud swaying to and fro past 
the open window. 

“You, no doubt, are surprised at receiving a call from my 
father and myself,” Wilma began, turning to Genevieve, after 
one piercing glance in the direction of her brother, and refus- 
ing, with a gesture of impatience, the chair Mrs. Layton brought 
for her; “and yet,” she continued, in a tone of insolent soft- 
ness, “I imagine a person who has in their possession a valuable 
ruby necklace would certainly be expecting the appearance of 
its owner.” 

Genevieve’s eyes looked straight into hers. “What do you 
mean?” she asked in a strangely harsh voice. 

“I am asking you to immediately restore to me my ruby 
necklace,” was the scornful reply. “If you comply with this re- 
quest, at once, this affair will not be made public — richly as you 
deserve it, Genevieve Layton.” 

“Wilma,” came audibly from Willard’s lips, and he involun- 
tarily moved toward her, as if to stop her words of accusation; 
then his eyes went back to Genevieve. She stood for a moment 
as one paralyzed, her eyes still fastened upon Wilma with a 
steady unflinching gaze; then suddenly she sank to the floor, 
with her white, unconscious face turned upward. Instantly 
Willard was at her side. 

“Don’t touch her, Willard,” Wilma commanded, attempting 
to draw him back; “a girl so low, so deceitful, is not worthy of 
so much from you.” 

“Dare not repeat that,” Willard muttered, and angrily shak- 
ing her off, he raised Genevieve in his arms, and carrying her 
into an adjoining room, placed her upon the bed. 

13 


194 


ROSELIN 


Mrs. Layton, bewildered by what had passed, sat for a mo- 
ment silently gasping, then she rushed to her daughter’s side. 
“Oh, my poor child, why should they so falsely accuse you,” she 
cried, bending over the death-like form of her daughter, exert- 
ing every effort to restore consciousness. As soon as she could 
leave her, she went back to the parlor. 

“Sir,” she said, addressing Mr. Allington, “will you please 
tell me why your daughter has brought these cruel, false accu- 
sations against Genevieve?” 

“I shall tell you the story from the beginning, Mrs. Layton, 
and as you would hear it from the young ladies who were pres- 
ent at the time when the jewel was last seen — about your daugh- 
ter’s neck.” Mrs. Layton listened in silence, her face as white, 
almost, as that of her daughter. Apparently she did not heed 
the scornful remarks which Wilma inserted as the story pro- 
gressed, but their sharpness pierced deep into the mother’s heart 
as she listened. 

“Mr. Allington, I am surprised, that you — a man of the 
world — knowing Genevieve from childhood, as you have known 
her, should accept, upon such a weak evidence against her, a 
story which would blight her life — a character sweet, pure and 
innocent, as the Father in Heaven knows hers to be.” 

“How could he, Mrs. Layton, doubt his own daughter? How 
could anyone doubt it? Have you any evidence for her?” asked 
Wilma. 

“Is it not possible that the necklace could have been lost in 
some other way. Miss Allington?” 

“Possible, but not probable,” Wilma replied sneeringly. “The 
room has been thoroughly searched; it positively is not there; 
and I have little doubt but that your daughter can give us the 
clue to the mystery.” 

“Do you mean to call Genevieve a thief, Miss Allington?” 
Mrs. Layton asked, with dark flashing eyes, looking straight 
into hers. 

Wilma drew herself up haughtily but did not reply. 

“The rooms are here before you,” Mrs. Layton continued, 
“and you are at perfect liberty to search for the jewel, but I 
dare say, the search will be as fruitless as the one in your own 
room; for I tell you, my daughter is innocent, and One more 
mighty than myself can — and will — protect her.’* 


GENEVIEVE ACCUSED 


195 


''We do not wish to form a searching party, Mrs. Layton,” 
Mr. Allington replied ; "we much prefer waiting until your 
daughter is able to give her word on the subject. If she is 
guilty, she will perhaps be willing to return the jewel in order 
to avoid publicity. Kindly tell Willard we are waiting for him.” 

Willard arose as Mrs. Layton came in, but Genevieve, who 
had lain with closed lids, straining her ears to. catch the words 
which came through the half-closed door, now raised wild un- 
natural eyes to theirs and wildly swinging her arms through the 
air cried: "No, not yet, Willard; don’t go until you have told 
me that you don’t believe this harsh, false story. Tell me that 
you believe me innocent, Willard, for I am; oh, Willard, I am 
innocent !” 

"Yes, Genevieve, I do believe you innocent,” he replied, im- 
prisoning both of her hands in his; and his low, firm tones 
fell soothingly upon her ears. 

"And you will tell them, Willard?” she asked pleadingly. 

"Yes, Genevieve, I’ll tell them,” he said tenderly, and releas- 
ing her hands, he continued: "I must go now, but I shall see 
you again.” 

She heard the door open, then close behind him, and slowly 
turning to the window she watched the tall figure until it 
reached the little gate, then burying her face in her hands, con- 
vulsive sobs shook the slight body; Mrs. Layton bent over her, 
gently smoothing the dark bands of silken hair. 

"Never mind, Genevieve, my child,” she whispered; "only 
put your trust in One who is more mighty than your accusers ; 
One who always stands for the right, and He will prove your 
innocence in His own way, dearest.” 

"Yes, mother, for I am innocent,” she said, suddenly lifting 
her head, and the hopeful light of her mother’s tear-dimmed eyes 
was reflected in hers, and with the blessed assurance that her 
Heavenly Father would stand by her, during this great trial, her 
strength grew and she became calm. 

Late in the evening she sent Robert to Roselin with a note 
for Mr. Allington. 

"Mr. Allington :” — she wrote, "You are asking me to re- 
turn to your daughter, a jewel — a ruby necklace — which is not 
in my possession — which I have not seen since I took it from my 


196 


ROSELIN 


neck and placed it upon the table among the many other jewels, 
in your daughter's room. I can give you no clue which can, 
in any way, account for its disappearance, but I can truthfully 
say that your accusations are harsh — cruel — false. Believe 
me, sir, I am innocent. 

“I shall leave tomorrow morning, to resume my work at the 
office of 'Carlson and Collins’; so if you wish to see me, you 
will please call at once. 

"Genevieve Layton.” 

Mr. Allington read the note, then hastily scrawling, upon a 
piece of note paper, the following, he handed it to Robert : 

"Genevieve Layton: — I have no wish to bring up further 
trouble between our families; so we will drop the affair where 
it is. If you are unwilling to return the ruby necklace, you 
are at perfect liberty to keep it. My daughter joins me in this 
decision. 

"J. M. Allington.” 

Mr. Allington wrote truthfully, when he said: "My daughter 
joins me in this decision;” for Wilma far preferred to let the 
guilt rest where they had now placed it than to proceed in a 
search for her ruby necklace, which might in the end prove 
Genevieve innocent, and bring her into the Allington family, 
as Willard’s wife ; and now both father and daughter, into 
whose hands Genevieve’s note fell, gladly welcomed the morn- 
ing of her departure. Willard knew nothing of her plans, and 
as he sat thinking of an afternoon call at the cottage, he 
little dreamed that Genevieve, weak and exhausted, scarcely 
able to stand the journey, was speeding away toward Balti- 
more. Genevieve had thought it unnecessary to inform him of 
her immediate departure, as he would, of course, hear it from his 
father, but both Wilma and Mr. Allington had carefully guarded 
mentioning the fact until after the whistle of the east-bound 
passenger train had sounded through the valley. Then seizing 
the first opportunity, Wilma said to him in a sneering tone: 

"And the guilty bird has flown.” 

"Flown?” he queried. 

"Yes; Genevieve has gone back to Baltimore. Had you not 
heard it? She went on the nine-twenty this morning. Papa 
heard it directly from Bob.” 


GENEVIEVE ACCUSED 


197 


With this information, Willard turned away and after that, 
at Roselin, there was no mention of Genevieve. 

Grace, who had not been feeling well, had scarcely left her 
room since the day of the picnic; and as only Ellen came to 
attend her, she knew nothing of the accusation of her friend ; and 
when Ellen, after placing a dainty supper before her, ventured 
to remark that Genevieve had that morning gone back to 
Baltimore, she only gave an exclamation of disappointment 
that she should have gone so unexpectedly, without coming 
to see her and tell her “good-bye.'* 


198 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXXIII 

BY THE GARDEN WALL 

The July twilight was swiftly coming to a close, when Grace, 
with a slow step, drew close to the garden wall, past which 
the path led to the lake. The feathery clouds in the west 
were tinted a delicate pink and edged by a brighter hue, by 
the sun’s last rosy light, then slowly it faded to a dull gray, 
growing deeper and darker, as Grace leaned wearily against 
the stone wall, watching the marvelous beauty; then she turned 
and looked out across the grass grown valley where, not far 
away, the little lake lay, glistening like a sheet of silver, sur- 
rounded by the wooded slopes. 

Shortly after supper she had left her room and strolled 
about the lawn and garden, while the others were spending the 
evening in the music-room, and were not aware, she thought, 
of the fact that she had left the house. And after so many 
long, lonely hours, spent alone in her room, she enjoyed the 
free, refreshing atmosphere; and regardless of the weak and 
exhausted condition of her body, she walked on, drinking in 
the natural beauties surrounding her on all sides, and manifest- 
ing so clearly the love and power of an Almighty Ruler. The 
last light of day had faded and the silvery moon was hanging 
high in the heavens, when she turned to retrace her steps, 
but she stopped as she saw a dark figure coming down the 
path toward her. It was Llewellyn. 

‘‘The air will be cool on the lake, Grace, so I’ve taken the 
privilege of bringing an extra shawl from your room,” he 
said, wrapping it about her; “and now I’m going to take you 
for a ride in Willard’s canoe; for, Grace, I’m going to tell you 
my secret. I’m going to tell you, tonight, that which only 
a few days ago I refused to tell, but I can keep it no longer, 
and though I may be wrong in relating it, even to you, I shall 
keep it no longer, my secret alone; but it shall be yours, too, 
Grace.” 


BY THE GARDEN WALL 


199 


^'Can you not tell the secret here as well as on the lake?” 
she asked, in a business-like tone, drawing away from the 
arms which, after placing the shawl about her shoulders, still 
lingered around her. 

*‘It is a long story, Grace, and I do not wish to keep you 
standing here. You look pale and tired. It is bright and beauti- 
ful on the lake and we shall, at least, find a place there for you 
to rest in the canoe.” His voice was low, and full of tender- 
ness, and, taking her hand, he led her down the path to the 
lake shore. There, seating her in one end of the canoe, he sat 
down, facing her and taking both of her hands in his, and 
looking straight into her dark brown eyes — with the light of 
love and mystery glowing in his own — began his story, 
jjc ^ 

Shortly after Llewellyn left the house, Lillian, tired and 
sick with the thought of Genevieve’s guilt and hasty departure — 
Genevieve, whose name never passed her lips only in solitary 
reveries — slipped away to Grace’s room, which she had not 
visited for several days; but Grace was not there, and, sitting 
down by the window, she looked out across the valley toward 
the cottage. Then her eyes fell upon the lake. There she 
could dimly discern two figures, seated in the canoe at the 
nearest margin of the lake, outlined against its gleaming sur- 
face. “Wilma and Louis,” she thought, as she watched them; 
then a sudden wish to be out in the brightening moonlight, 
took possession of her. “I shall go down to the garden and 
get a rose for my hair; it will keep very well in water, until 
morning,” she murmured, as she hastily descended the stairs. 

^Down the garden path she went, searching among the flowers 
for a rosebud to suit her particular fancy, and having pro- 
cured it, curiosity led her to the garden wall. Standing on 
tip-toe and pushing aside the shrubbery bordering it, she could 
just see over it. The two figures had left the lake and were 
coming slowly up the path toward the garden. With a quick 
breath she leaned forward. It was not Louis and Wilma! Who 
could it be 1 All the others she had left in the music-room, 
save Llewellyn, who, saying he was tired, had gone to his room. 
The two figures drew nearer and nearer. Her hands grew icy 
cold and her cheeks blazed as she recognized the tall figure 


200 


ROSELIN 


of the man. His low musical voice floated to her on the breeze 
as they came nearer ; but she could not catch his words. Breath- 
lessly she stood, holding back the green foliage of the shrub, 
which otherwise would have hidden them from view. “Llewellyn 
and Grace !’* she gasped beneath her breath. When they reached 
the garden wall just opposite her, they paused, and taking 
Grace in his arms, Llewellyn kissed the face upturned to his, 
again and again, on lips, cheek, and brow. 

“My darling Grace; my own little f the last word was 

so low that Lillian's strained ears failed to catch it, but she 
could readily guess what it was. Llewellyn — her lover — was 
calling Grace Wilton his Marling,* his ‘little sweetheart !’ ’* 

“I have been dreaming of you so long, Grace; I have al- 
ways felt that it must be so,’* the tender voice continued ; 
“but for awhile it must be our secret alone, dearest. Please 
keep it from your mother — from every one — for a time, Grace.” 

“Yes, Llewellyn, I shall tell it to no one until I have re- 
ceived your permission, but I am so glad you have told me; 
it makes me so happy,** Grace answered, winding her arms 
closely about his neck. 

“And, Grace, you don’t censure me, now, for insisting upon 
your acceptance of that gift, do you?** he asked, kissing her 
again. 

“No, Llewellyn, not now; but then I did not know. Now I 
shall keep it and always love the memory of the day you gave 
it to me.** 

“My little darling!” he exclaimed, as they moved on up the 
path. 

“Lillian stood quite still until they were gone; then hastily 
rushing to the stone gate farther down the wall, she stepped out 
into the path, and standing like a marble statue, her cold white 
hands clenched at her sides, her face colorless, she gazed after 
them; then turning, she threw herself down at the foot of the 
tall marble, pointing heavenward, which marked her mother’s 
grave. 

The little brook which ran past it, babbled on, as it wound 
its way lakeward; the silvery moon flooded the world with a 
mellow glowing light ; the warm breeze, wafting upon its 
bosom the sweet, delicate perfume of flowers, breathed softly 


BY THE GARDEN WALL 


201 


above her, but she did not move, save when an agonized sob 
shook her. Her face was hidden against the cold, white marble ; 
one arm stretched across the grassy mound and the other hand 
— cold and trembling — was pressed to her heart. There the pain 
had entered — pain too deep for tears. 

“Oh that Llewellyn — Llewellyn whom I have loved so dearly — 
should deceive me,’' she moaned. “Only this evening he called 
me ‘darling’ and spoke of the day when I should at last be 
his — his bride — and now I’ve found him false. Genevieve false 
— Llewellyn false — the whole world false. Oh, that I should have 
lived to have known this hour, when Llewellyn’s love has failed. 
Oh God, give me strength to bear it. May my angel mother 
be my guide and point out the path which my weary feet 
should follow. Give me the strength, the courage, to follow 
her spiritual guidance.” Then again silence fell over the stone- 
studded cemetery. A few clouds had gathered and now the 
sky grew dark; the moonlight faded and the warm, round 
raindrops began to fall, softly, gently, as if the Heavens were 
weeping tears of sorrow and sympathy. Presently she arose, 
and, drawing the shawl closely about her, turned from her 
mother’s grave and, with a long-drawn, shivering sigh, started 
toward the house, where only one light burned dimly, in the 
hall. Noiselessly she stole up the stairs and down the hall, 
until she came to Grace’s room, where at that moment she, 
perhaps, was sleeping peacefully, dreaming of Llewellyn; and 
there with a threatening gesture, such as Lillian Allington had 
never before assumed, she paused before the closed door. 

“Oh! Grace, how dared you,, too, deceive me?” came in a 
hoarse whisper. “But what am I — small and fair-haired — in 
comparison with your beauty — ^your tall, graceful form — that 
he should love me ? His love has always been yours — ^not 
mine, Grace Wilton, but yours — ^but I am undeceived at last, 
thank God — at last — ^before it is too late. I shall break the last 
tie which binds me and he shall be yours! Yes, Grace! it shall 
be as he wishes it.” 

With the air of a tragic queen, she moved on to her room, 
and slipping the superb diamond from her finger, put it in its 
velvet case, and going to her desk, she wrote a note to Llewellyn. 
The last thread must be broken at once and forever. Hastily 


202 


ROSELIN 


she sealed and addressed it and laying them together, she 
threw herself upon the small white bed and burst into a pas- 
sionate fit of weeping. 

“Oh, Llewellyn, how can I give you up?” she sobbed, as 
the tears fell thick and fast upon her ruffled pillow. 

The light of day was peeping in at the window when she 
awoke from a restless sleep, still clad in her pale blue even- 
ing dress. As one in a dream, she gazed at the reflection in 
the mirror. 

During sleep, the combs had fallen from her hair, and 
now it fell about her shoulders like a golden veil. Her face 
was almost as white as marble; the eyes had lost their bright- 
ness and deep lines showed beneath them; the lips, which were 
of a ghastly hue, were slightly parted. With a shudder, she 
turned from her own image, and taking the sparkling ring from 
its box, she pressed it to her lips. 

“Good-bye, my beauty — my darling she whispered; “you 

must carry my last, sad message to Llewellyn — a message of 
love, sorrow and a broken engagement. Breathe to him, dear 
heart, my last good-bye.” 

Again she pressed it to her lips, then placing it in its tiny 
case, she wrapped it in white paper, and, tying it with a dainty 
blue ribbon, rang for Clarice. 

“Has Mr. Greymore left his room this morning?” she asked 
calmly. 

“I think not. Miss Lillian,” was the reply, and Clarice looked 
curiously at her. 

“Take this to him at once then, Clarice,” she said, handing 
her the note with the little package; then as the door closed 
behind her, she again burst into tears. 

“Once I believed him to be true to me,” she sobbed; “once 
I would have trusted him before the whole world, but alas 
— Llewellyn — I have found him false — false to the love I gave 
him! Once I dreamed of a happy future as his wife; how 
quickly has it faded and now — now only a dark, lonely path 
stretches out before me, through that untried future — a future 
without him — without love — without happiness,” 


A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT 


203 


CHAPTER XXXIV 

A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT 

A BRIGHT sun was shining down upon a dew-bedecked world 
when Llewellyn arose from his bed and drew the curtains back 
from the window. Raindrops still clung to the green leaves of 
the vines, trailing around it, glistening and sparkling like bril- 
liant diamonds, and one by one fading in the warm glow of the 
morning light. A robin hopped here and there, about the 
green lawn, in search of some small, unlucky insect, which 
might form a part of his morning meal. Everything looked 
fresh and bright, and Llewellyn whistled softly to himself an 
air which he had heard Lillian sing the evening before. After 
a long, restful slumber, he felt ready for the joys and pleasures 
which the day might bring forth. 

Twice was the tap at the door repeated, and with the third 
Clarice’s voice called simultaneously: “Mr. Greymore, are you 
in?” 

“Yes, I’m in; pardon my thoughtlessness,” he smilingly an- 
swered, opening the door. 

“Thank you,” he added, as she placed the small, white en- 
velope, together with the little package tied with blue ribbon, 
in his hand and turned away. 

“Lillian’s writing ; the dear girl !” he scanned his own name, 
written daintily across the front of the envelope; “and this — 
what can it be?” he asked of the tiny box, as he untied the 
ribbon. 

The paper wrapper fell from it and there, in his hand, he 
held a velvet case quite familiar to him. Hastily raising the lid 
he gazed in astonishment at the sparkling diamond. 

“What can it mean! Lillian’s diamond ring! her engagement 
ring returned to me ! I do not understand,” he gasped, tearing 
open the envelope. Taking out the single sheet he read: 

“Llewellyn: — Permit me to return to you the ring which has 
been mine for three happy years — which I have loved for its 
memory of you — but it is all changed now, and it is my wish 


204 


ROSELIN 


that our engagement shall be broken. With my own hand, I 
break, now and forever, every tie which binds us. It is also 
my wish that you leave Roselin without seeing me. Do not 
ask it, for it shall not be granted. I trust you will consider 
this final; I am fully decided that it must all end here. 

“Good-bye Llewellyn — forever. 

“Lillian Allington.” 

“Our engagement broken? Oh God, why should it be?’^ he 
asked, in a voice full of sad, broken hearted pathos, and the 
paper fluttered from his fingers. “Leave Roselin without see- 
ing my darling’s face? I knew not till now that her dear, 
white hands could be so cruel. Oh! Lillian, my darling Lilly, 
how can I give you up? I have loved once; and only once 
shall I love — loved and lost — lost the most precious jewel which 
earth can give — Lilly, the idol of my heart. Oh! I had never 
thought that her love — a gift sent directly to me from Heaven — 
could fail me. Does she love another now, as she once loved 
me, or has she grown tired of the love which shall still live 
on and on forever — tired of the ties which would stretch be- 
yond land and sea and which my darling has broken ‘now and 
forever?’ Forever .” 

He paused; and the deep lines, drawn about the white, 
trembling lips of the man, told of the pain which throbbed wild- 
ly with every heart beat. 

“Forever stretches through eternity,” he went on. “Must I 
consider it final till the end of time? Ah! No! Lillian, my 
darling, I cannot do it. I must see you once again. I must 
kiss your rosy lips, hold you to my heart, and call you mine. 
Only one moment would I ask it, then, if you still wished, 
if it would make you happy, you should send me from you 
forever — never again to look upon your sweet, spirituous face — 
but now, darling, how can I do it?” 

He sank into a chair, with his head bowed on his hand, 
and his waving brown locks, damp with a cold perspiration, 
fell upon it. A long sigh shook the square shoulders, and he 
sat in silence. 

Could it be that his dear little Lillian had forgotten him — 
that she no longer loved him as she did in the dear old college 
days, when she had first whispered that she loved him? So, 


A BROKEN ENGAGEMENT 


205 


like a golden fairy of dreamland, she had vanished just as the 
time was dawning when she was to be his — his wife. Why had 
she not warned him of her dying love? Why had she gone on 
in her tender, loving manner, talking of the future with him, 
when her young heart was throbbing bitterly against it? Why 
had she not told him with her own sweet voice, with her 
hand resting sympathetically on his, instead of sending him this 
cold, piercing note, which completely vanished his golden dream. 
He would leave Roselin on the morrow, but he must see Lillian, 
or at least receive some message from her before he went back 
to Chicago — back to the office to a daily round of labor — 
brightened not by the thought of a beautiful young face glow- 
ing with love for him, a tender loving heart waiting and 
throbbing for him. 

He must decide upon some plan of action; and half an hour 
later he sent to her this note: 

“My Darling Lillian: — 

“You cannot imagine how you have stabbed a heart which 
is wholly thine. How cold and inadequate are words to ex- 
press my sorrow. Only grant to me, darling, one last request; 
only let me see you once again, before I leave Roselin, and 
perhaps you will repent the cruel words you have written. Give 
to me, at least, one explanation of that broken engagement — the 
cause of a broken heart. Oh Lillian! I must see you; I must 
hear it from your own dear lips. If you still persist in your re- 
fusal to see me, I shall leave Roselin at once, but I pray of you, 
grant it. 

“As ever yours, 

“Llewellyn.’’ 

If he could have seen her as she read that note; if he 
could have heard the broken sobs of, “Oh, Llewellyn, you are 
even more false than I suspected,” he would have forgotten a 
part of his own grief in sympathy for her, but the cold little 
note which came in return did not soothe, but only deepened 
the pain in the wounded heart. 

“I cannot comply with either of your requests,” she wrote; 
“An explanation is quite unnecessary. 


'Lillian.’ 


206 


ROSELIN 


*‘It must be as she wishes/’ he said, pacing up and down 
the room with the paper crushed in his hand. “It must be 
good-bye, but God grant that it may not be forever/’ 

Then nerving himself for the unexpected task which lay 
before him, he consulted his railroad timetable for a moment, 
then went down to the library. There he found Willard, dream- 
ing of Genevieve, who, while he still believed her innocent, 
was, for the time, quite lost to him. 

“Hello, old fellow ; you’re late getting down this morn- 
ing!” he exclaimed, as Llewellyn came in, slapping him on 
the shoulder at the same time in his old familiar way. 

“Yes, rather,” he replied; then after a moment’s silence, he 
continued: “To tell you the truth, Allington, I’ve been con- 
templating an immediate return to Chicago; I should have been 
back to my work ere this, and sorry as I am to be the 
first to leave you, I feel that I must go today.” 

“Today, Greymore? Impossible! A few more days from 
your work can do you no harm.” 

“Yes, Willard, I must go today. What time is the afternoon 
train?” 

Again he consulted the timetable and Willard, noting the 
melancholy tone in his voice, looked at him curiously as he 
replied : 

“The four-fifteen makes good connections for Chicago; but 
come, Greymore, say you’re not going.” 

To say he was not going was quite impossible for Llewellyn, 
and he only shook his head, and replied: 

“No, Willard, do not ask me.” He was hardly able to control 
his voice, and Willard argued no further. 

The other guests, too, showed plainly their astonishment and 
disappointment when they learned that Llewellyn was so soon 
to leave Roselin ; but the only explanation he gave for his sudden 
departure was : “I am needed at my home and office in Chicago 
and should have been there ere this.” 

Thus it was that Llewellyn left Roselin — no one dreaming 
of the sad, aching heart hidden beneath that calm exterior. 


A FADING LILLY 


207 


CHAPTER XXXV 

A FADING LILLY 

Llewellyn was gone — Lillian had watched him from her 
window — had seen his eyes raised with an expected gaze to 
the window, where, the moment before, her pale face had been 
pressed, but quickly had she drawn back into the shelter of 
the curtains, and Llewellyn knew not that a sad, loving face 
was hidden beneath the fleecy fullness which met his view. She 
had seen him turn away then and enter the carriage, but she 
had failed to see the look of disappointment which instantly 
clouded the noble, manly features. She only knew that Llewellyn 
was gone, and with him her love, her heart, her joy — forever 
gone from her. 

She had seen no one since Clarice had left her two hours 
before, and no other person had been admitted to her room 
that day. Her head was aching and even Wilma must not dis- 
turb her. Left alone, she had cried herself almost into a fever 
before the hour for Llewellyn’s departure came, first weeping 
passionately, then sobbing convulsively ; and now, when she 
realized that he had really gone, that the light of his love had 
forever vanished, and that she was left alone, to live through 
the long, lonely years to come, she grew dizzy and sank down 
upon the floor. With the setting of the sun upon her horizon 
of happiness, and the approach of the dense darkness of night, 
consciousness had almost gone and she lay motionless. 

There upon the floor by the window Clarice found her, and 
calling for Wilma, they together lifted her to the bed. 

^‘He is gone and it is all over,” she murmured, with a 
mournful sob, as her sister bent over her. 

Wilma looked at her in astonishment; she had changed since 
last she saw her, the evening before; the full, pink cheeks 
were now white and sunken ; the eyes, too, were sunken, and 
red from weeping; her voice usually so sweet and cheerful, 
was now sad and mournful and the blithe young figure seemed 
to have grown thin during those hours of suffering. 


208 


ROSELIN 


“Yes, Llewellyn is gone, but you cannot expect to keep him 
always with you,’* Wilma said, in an unusually tender voice, 
bending close to her sister. 

“Don’t talk of him, Wilma,” she replied, with a strange little 
quivering accent, as she turned from her. “My head aches so 
dreadfully I cannot bear it.” 

“Tell me, Lillian,” Wilma asked, after a moment’s silence; 
“is there something between you and Llewellyn?” 

“Nothing,” came tremulously, between broken sobs, and from 
between the white lids, round, glistening tears stole, one after 
another, and rolled slowly down her cheeks. 

“Can you not trust your sister, Lillian?” Wilma asked, some- 
what impatiently. 

“I tell you there is nothing between us, save — save a broken 
engagement.” 

“A broken engagement ! Lillian Allington, what do you 
mean?” 

“Do not ask me, Wilma; I cannot explain; but believe me, 
every tie is broken; my ring is gone, and Llewellyn Greymore 
is forever dead to me.” She stretched out the hand upon which 
the engagement ring had once sparkled and laid it upon Wilma’s. 
“See, it is gone,” she said, softly. 

“Is it possible, Lillian !” Wilma exclaimed. “I can hardly 
believe your words, but tell me this, Lillian, which of you 
suggested that it should be broken?” 

For a moment Lillian was silent, then with a steady voice, 
she replied: “I broke it of my own accord when I learned that 
his love was not mine. Yes, gladly did I break it, when I 
knew that he wished to be free from the ties which bound him 
to me.” 

“Lillian, how dared you give him up, even though he wished 
it?” Wilma asked, indignantly. “You certainly do not realize his 
full value as a husband ; a more handsome man cannot be found, 
and you, Lillian, can never secure a more brilliant companion 
than Llewellyn Greymore. He would have found it hard to 
have gained his liberty, had it been your sister’s hands into 
which he had fallen. Lillian, you are more foolish than I 
thought you to be.” 

“The love of the man I marry, Wilma, must be equal to 
my own ; his was lacking — ^but I fear my love shall never die.” 


A FADING LILLY 


^09 


Love like hers could not die, and, although the hand could 
willingly break the promise her lips had given, the heart could 
not give up its treasure. During the days which followed, Lil- 
lian stayed in her room. She was so white, so weak and ex- 
hausted, that those who remembered the last year of Margaret 
Allington^s life, feared that the same result was dawning for 
her child. It was sad indeed, that a fair, fragrant Lilly, just 
budding into fullest beauty, should droop and fade, and when 
the guests left Roselin, it was with a silent prayer that health 
and bloom should return to the fair young girl. 

No one knew the cause of the broken engagement. Mr. Al- 
lington and Willard could find out nothing more than Wilma 
had succeeded in learning; and at the mention of Llewellyn’s 
name, Lillian would become so excited that at last they ceased 
to speak of him. Not a word of accusation against Grace had 
fallen from her lips, but that name, also, seemed buried away 
with Llewellyn and Genevieve, and memories of the sad past — 
for it never passed her lips. 

For awhile Grace came frequently to her room, but from 
her tender loving touch, Lillian never ceased to shrink, and 
Grace, noticing the change, stayed away; leaving the many 
little acts of kindness undone. Everything was changed for 
her, and at last, wondering at what seemed to her strange 
mysteries, she resolved to stay by herself as much as possible. 
The names which were most dear to her, she never heard, 
except when she whispered them to herself ; and now, when 
Lillian turned from her, she felt that life at Roselin was al- 
most unbearable. No word came to her from Llewellyn, no word 
from Genevieve, and only her mother’s letters came, to brighten 
those last days of July. She looked eagerly forward to the 
time when her mother would return, for she felt that every 
member of the family at Roselin had ceased to be her friend. 
Willard treated her in the same brotherly manner, when in her 
presence, but the beautiful Marie, who still remained a guest 
at Roselin, took the greater part of his time and as the days 
passed, the shadows of her young life deepened. In the future, 
she could see a bright ray of happiness, which Llewellyn’s 
secret might bring into her life, but now it lay hidden deep in 
the heart which longed for her mother’s loving presence. 


14 


210 


ROSELIN 


One day a letter came for her from a girl living in Green- 
field, not far from Lakeview, whom she had met at school 
in Baltimore, asking her to visit her in her summer home. 
Grace grasped at once upon this invitation, as a release from 
the lonely life she had been living at Roselin, and a week 
later she had, with a great effort, cast aside all unpleasant 
thoughts, and with a heart lighter than it had been for many a 
day, started for the home of her college friend. There the 
days passed swiftly and happily, and in an atmosphere of liberty 
and freedom, where she felt that those around her were her 
friends and considered her in every respect their equal, Grace’s 
face became brighter and rosier. 

The end of her visit was drawing near, when invitations came 
for a party to be given by Mrs. Delmar, the most popular lady 
in Greenfield, and Grace was urged to remain. Mrs. Delmar 
herself called to say that she would be very much disappointed 
if Miss Wilton did not attend the party. 

*‘It will certainly be a success if you come, dear, for your 
sweet, smiling face and easy, unaffected manners are so re- 
freshing and are sure to win the young men,” she whispered, 
as she left. 

The evening for the party came and Grace stood before the 
mirror, putting the last touches to her toilet. She wore a dress 
of dainty white silk, trimmed in soft folds of lace, which fell 
in pretty waves about the pearly shoulders and over the round 
satin-like arms. Her hair was done in soft waves, among which 
lay a single white lily. She raised the lid of her small golden jewel 
case and taking from it the single string of pearls she held it 
against her slender throat. ‘‘They’ll never do !” she exclaimed. 
“I need something more brilliant; but do I dare to wear the 
rubies?” She softly breathed the last word, and taking the green 
velvet case in her hand, she looked longingly at it. “I’ve 
never worn them,” she continued, nodding toward the case, as 
if addressing it; “but why not wear them, now that I know 
Llewellyn’s secret. What harm can there be, when there will 
be no one at the party to know — no one to care. It will help 
me through the evening, for it breathes to me of love, hope 
and joy.” 

She took the crimson necklace in her fingers and kissed it; 


A FADING LILLY 


211 


then with a determination to wear it, she fastened it about her 
neck. 

“I really do look well tonight,’’ she said to the face reflected 
before her, just as her friend’s voice called to ask if she were 
ready, and grasping her coat and scarf, she left the house. 

Donald Delmar, the younger brother of the host, seemed 
quite attentive to her, and during the greater part of the even- 
ing he was at her side. She found him an interesting com- 
panion and when a stroll through the gardens, where many of 
the others had wandered, was suggested, she readily consented. 
The pale new moon was shining dimly, and artistically decorated 
lanterns lighted the garden paths at intervals; and the sound of 
music floated to them, from the music-room, in the soft, mellow 
strains of a waltz. Suddenly they came upon a small group, 
almost hidden by the swaying blossoms of a hydrangea. A hot 
flush touched Grace’s cheek as she recognized Wilma. Only a 
faint light, from the lantern swaying directly above the gaily 
conversing group, fell upon them, and with the vain hope that 
Wilma had not seen them, she and her companion turned into 
another path. 

“What can I say to her if she sees my rubies?” was Grace’s 
first thought, as they moved slowly on. “I shall never tell 
Llewellyn’s secret, so how can I explain? Perhaps it was wrong 
for me to wear them, even here, when I shrink from wearing 
them at home, where all the family would see them. Wilma will 
ask who gave them to me, when she sees them, and what can 
I say? Oh, what can I say! Can I tell the truth? Can I say 
they are a gift from Llewellyn — an expensive gift like this? 
No, never! She must not see them!” 

Mr. Delmar was talking to her but she scarcely heard his 
voice, and when he was not noticing, her hand went to her throat, 
and pressing the golden clasp she slipped the necklace beneath 
the laces of her gown; then with a little sigh of relief she 
turned again to her companion. 

“Let us go back to the drawing-rooms, now,” she said. “I 
have enjoyed the gardens most thoroughly, Mr. Delmar, and I 
owe all my thanks to you.” 

“Not at all. Miss Wilton ’twas only a pleasure for me I 
assure you,” he said, leading the way up to the flower-bordered 
walk and on to the drawing-room. 


212 


ROSELIN 


Apparently, Wilma had not seen the young lady in white, 
with Donald Delmar, for when one of the others remarked 
upon her beauty and asked who she was, Wilma remained silent, 
but the rubies had not escaped her casual glance. Their warm, 
red glow (even though in the dim light) had attracted her at- 
tention, and as Grace and her companion turned into the other 
path, Wilma’s black eyes had followed them with a piercing 
glance, of mingled surprise and hatred; then with scarcely a 
pause she joined in the gay conversation about her; but she 
did not forget Grace and the ruby necklace. After all, Gene- 
vieve was innocent — innocent of the sin of which she had been 
accused — for had she not seen her ruby necklace about Grace 
Wilton’s neck? Grace guilty of such an act! Grace Wilton 
rob the daughter of the man whose roof sheltered her ! How 
dared she! ’Twas jealousy — mad jealousy — which had led her 
on. She had taken the jewels, no doubt, in order to detract 

from Wilma’s beauty and, upon rare occasions, like this, when 

no one from Roselin was expected to be present, to add to her 
own charms, by wearing it. And, indeed, Grace was beautiful 
tonight ! Wilma acknowledged it to herself and her hatred grew 
more intense with every moment. But when next she saw her, 
in the drawing-room, the brilliant rubies were gone from the 
pearly throat and as Wilma’s eyes met Grace’s, she exclaimed 
beneath her breath: 

^‘Ah, Grace, thou canst deceive me now !” Her lip was curled 
with a scornful smile, and from the depths of her piercing eyes 

there gleamed a look of hatred such as Grace had never seen 

before ; then as she moved on, Grace watched the beaming 
smiles which brightened the haughty visage, and the softening 
glow of the sparkling eyes. How quickly had the storm vanished 
and the sunbeams began playing in its stead. 

Grace stood before her dressing table a long time that night, 
looking at the rubies as she removed them from her waist. 
‘T’m sorry I wore them,” she said.” “’Twas vain of me to 
think of my beauty.” 

The morning train carried her back to Roselin, and there 
she took up life just where she had dropped it. There were 
but few changes ; Lillian still continued to droop ; Marie had 
returned to Lakeview, and Wilma had gone with her, but she 


A FADING LILLY 


213 


was coming honiie on the evening train — she could not be away 
from her sister very long. These facts Grace obtained from the 
servants. Neither Mr. Allington nor Willard were at the house, 
and Lillian refused to see her; so she busied herself about the 
lonely rooms, trying to keep back the tears which, in spite of 
her efforts, kept trickling down her cheeks. 

The clock was striking eight when she heard the automobile 
stop at the gate and Wilma enter the hall; and from her 
mother’s sitting-room she heard her footsteps as they went up 
to Lillian’s room; then for an hour everything was still. Again 
Wilma’s step sounded on the stairs and in the hall, and the next 
moment the door was swung wide open and, clad in a dark 
red traveling suit, she advanced toward Grace. 

“I think I saw you at the Delmar party, did I not?” she 
asked; and Grace involuntarily shrank beneath her searching 
gaze. 

saw you at least,” she replied, calmly. 

“Yes !” Wilma said, scornfully. “First I saw you in the 
garden, with Mr. Delmar — a young lady in a white gown, pur- 
chased with my father’s money, and a ruby necklace purchased 
also, with his money — Ah, Grace, my rubies !” 

“’Tis not so!” Grace exclaimed, the hot blood dyeing her 
cheeks; but Wilma continued: 

^ “When next I saw you the rubies were not there. Tell me, 
Grace Wilton, where are they now? — my rubies which we have 
all falsely accused Genevieve Layton of having in her posses- 
sion 1” 

“Your ruby necklace, Wilma?” Grace asked. “Is it not in 
your case? Accuse Genevieve of theft? Impossible!” 

“No!” Wilma returned, emphatically, “Genevieve Layton 
is no longer called a thief, for that name now falls upon its 
rightful owner.” She pointed accusingly toward Grace. 

“Wilma Allington ! you think I would commit a sin so great 
as that? You dare not accuse me, for your eyes had never be- 
fore rested upon the rubies I wore last night. They were given 
to me by a friend — no matter whom — ^but most assuredly they 
were not purchased with Mr. Allington’s money.” 

Grace faced her with an unequaled courage. “Will you please 
explain to me about your own necklace; I have not heard of 
Genevieve’s accusation?” she continued truthfully. 


214 


ROSELIN 


'‘Impossible!’^ Wilma turned from her with a gesture of im- 
patience. “But you do not deny that you wore a ruby necklace 
to the Delmar party and that you removed it from your neck 
the minute you saw me? You cannot deny that!” 

“I do not deny it. But I do say, that they were never 
yours.” 

A mocking laugh rippled from Wilma’s lips. 

“Do not expect me to believe that, Grace, for I shall not for 
a moment consider such unreasonable statements as you have 
made. A friend gave it to you, indeed !” 

The color faded from Grace’s cheeks and lips and she burst 
into tears just as Mr. Allington came in. 

“Papa, I have at last found my necklace.” 

Wilma turned to him, with her hand extended toward Grace, 
who instantly recoiled beneath her stepfather’s glance. 

“What, Wilma! Is Genevieve innocent?” 

“Grace was at the Delmar party last night, and with my own 
eyes, I saw my ruby necklace about her neck. If it was not 
mine, why did she remove it, when I surprised her by my pres- 
ence?” 

All Grace’s exclamations of surprise and weak explanations 
were of no avail. 

“Grace, bring the necklace to me,” Mr. Allington said 
sternly, to the sobbing girl. “Wilma shall be the judge whether 
or not it is hers. She will know her own rubies.” 

For a moment Grace hesitated. Bring her precious rubies — 
the necklace which Llewellyn had given her — to Mr. Alling- 
ton — to Wilma, her accuser — how could she? 

“Go at once, Grace,” Mr. Allington commanded again, and 
she moved toward the door. 

Perhaps, after all, Wilma would know that the necklace 
was not hers. There were several points wherein they were 
different, and upon close examination, Wilma ought to see 
that they were not the same; and with the assurance that they 
would still be hers, she groped her way, through blinding tears, 
till she reached her room and procured the green velvet case. 
To her, the rubies represented Llewellyn’s secret, and as she 
placed it in Mr. Allington’s hand, she felt that she had almost 
revealed that cherished secret, which she had so faithfully 


A FADING LILLY 


215 


promised to keep, but she would never utter the words; and 
with tightly compressed lips, she stood by while Wilma drew 
near to her father, looking wonderingly at the velvet case. 

“They are mine,” she exclaimed, as Mr. Allington opened 
it and the light fell upon the rubies. 

“Oh, Wilma, they are not yours !” Grace cried, springing 
forward. “Examine them ! Look at them ! They are different ! 
See?” 

“Do not excite yourself, Grace; I think Wilma is capable 
of recognizing her necklace.” Mr. Allington drew the rubies 
from her fingers and gave them to Wilma “Examine them, 
Wilma, and tell me, are they yours?” he said. 

“Mine! Certainly they are mine. You can see for yourself; 
they can be no other.” 

Mr. Allington turned to Grace. “Grace, why have you 
willingly and willfully kept silent, while the guilt of this act 
has fallen upon another — a friend of yours — who was per- 
fectly innocent and who has been more deeply wronged; who 
has suffered more than you would have done, had you truth- 
fully said, *the rubies are in my possession.* You have not 
only committed the sin of taking the necklace, but you have 
ruined Genevieve Layton’s life and you have attempted to 
deceive Wilma by removing the necklace, after she had once 
seen it. Now, you expect us to believe that a friend gave 
them to you. How absurd ! Your mother will be horrified 
when she hears this story.” 

Grace was weeping passionately. 

“You may go to your room at once,” he continued; “and 
you may take this with you as Wilma has no wish to keep 
that which does not rightfully belong to her.” 

He placed the green velvet case in her hand and motioned 
her toward the door. Only broken sobs came from the lips 
which strove to oppose him. 

“Do you hear me, Grace? Go to your room and there 
you may stay.” 

A maddening passion rose within her and, springing toward 
Wilma, she grasped the rubies once more in her hand. 

“Give them to me and Eli go forever,” she exclaimed, still 
clinging to the rubies in spite of Mr. Allington’s firm hand 
upon her arm, 


216 


ROSELIN 


“Do not assume what you do not feel, Grace. The rubies 
are Wilma’s and you are going without them.” He roughly 
unclasped her fingers and pushed her toward the door, and 
with another burst of tears she rushed from the room. 

“Wilma, your necklace is again yours, but we now have a 
more serious proposition to face,” Mr. Allington said, seriously; 
“Genevieve Layton is free from the guilt which has, thus far, 
separated her from Willard, and when he learns that she is 
innocent, I do not doubt but that he will, immediately, offer 
her his heart and hand.” 

“He shall not,” Wilma declared. “She shall never be his 
wife! He shall not disgrace our family, forever; and, papa, 
we must plan as we have never before done; we must keep 
it from him ; she must never be his wife !” 


LEAVING ROSELIN 


2ir 


CHAPTER XXXVI 

LEAVING ROSELIN 

The last light had been turned out, and Roselin lay in the 
full moonlight that flooded the world with its mellow light and 
streamed in at an unshaded window, between crimson damask 
curtains and across an empty, snow-white bed. The ruffled 
pillow was undented by the dark curly head that should have 
rested there in sweet, peaceful slumber, while a white-robed 
figure knelt by the bedside. Now and then a sob broke the 
peaceful silence, then again it reigned supremely. Then the 
white figure stole softly to the open window, drew a chair 
near and laid her aching head on the cool window sill, and 
the long, dark curls fell upon the white marble. The heart 
was aching, too, but there was no cool marble to rest it on, no 
golden moon-beams to flood it with rosy light. Her heart 
ached on while her thoughts flew. How could she live on at 
Roselin — live alone from day to day? Could she bear the 
taunts and sneers which would fall from Wilma’s lips? Could 
she bear the look of distrust which would be written in the 
depths of Lillian’s blue eyes? Could she longer bear Lillian’s 
shrinking away from her? Willard’s face, too, would picture, 
more vividly than Mr. Allington’s words had done, Gene- 
vieve’s innocence, and her own guilt. Everyone, from Mr. 
Allington to the servants, would turn from her; would hate 
and despise her. She had already suffered so much and now, 
during her mother’s absence, that she should be accused of 
so great a sin, was more than her sensitive nature could 
bear, and her heart longed for her mother’s tender sympathy 
and loving counsel. What should she do? Should she leave 
Roselin — leave her own dear rubies — give up forever the tender 
remembrance of Llewellyn which they had breathed to her? 
Only the velvet case and the precious loving memories of the 
past to tell her of his love, his hope, his secret. 

An owl, from the wood near the lake, began to hoot his 
sad, lonesome call, out over the silent world beneath him. The 


218 


ROSELIN 


white figure by the window shivered and again the stifled sob 
broke out. How she longed for that little southern cottage, 
with its crimson rambler and rose-perfumed garden. Oh, for 
a taste of the peace and happiness she had had there. She 
could no longer quiet her emotion and one sob after another 
mingled with the hooting of the owl. Everything else was 
silent; at last even the owl hushed his midnight song; per- 
haps, flew away to a more distant part of the woods. 

‘^Oh why should it be ?’^ she whispered, between broken 
sobs. “Fm alone and forsaken, but I shall stay here no longer. 
Fve lived the last day of life like this — surrounded by dis- 
trust and hatred.” 

She arose and turned from the window. ^‘Am I really 
going?” she asked, throwing the long curls back over her 
shoulders and pressing her hands to her brow. ^‘Going alone 
— without mamma — without Llewellyn — without my necklace? 
Going alone — and where?” For a moment she stood quite still, 
her hands clasped before her and a silent prayer trembling 
on her lips; then the sad, forsaken look slowly vanished and 
one of resolute determination took its place. She would go 
to Genevieve — Genevieve, who, like herself, had been so se- 
riously wronged — back to the dear little room at Mrs. North’s. 
There she would find love and sympathy ; Genevieve could 
comfort her. Her loyal heart, so deeply grieved, would be 
filled with true sympathy for the girl who was starting out 
to live her life alone. 

“Mamma will come for me at once, when she comes home 
and finds me gone, but I shall never live again at Roselin. 
Mamma will never forsake me,” was a comforting thought 
which passed to and fro through her mind as she donned her 
traveling dress, combed her long hair high upon her head, and 
gathered together the articles she wished to take with her. 

At last she was ready and with a noiseless tread she left the 
house. The whole bright world was silent and sleeping. 
“Alone!” she whispered again, as she paused at the gate and 
looked back at the white building, over which dim shadows 
were falling. 

“Good-bye, Roselin; with you I leave many sad memories 
of the past, but with me I shall take the loving memories — mem- 


LEAVING RO SELIN 


819 


ories of mamma — of Llewellyn — of Willard and Lillian, though 
they hate me now. My rubies I must leave with Wilma. May 
God forgive her for her sins and lead Mr. Allington to realize 
his cruel mistakes.’’ 

Slowly she turned away and tears hung heavily upon her 
lashes, as she glanced down toward the garden wall and the 
path which led to the lake. There Llewellyn had told her his 
secret. 

“Of all the memories, I love that most,” she whispered, 
extending her arms toward the lake as if in a last farewell; 
then she hurried on toward the village. The moon was drift- 
ing through fleecy clouds now, and here and there dense 
shadows fell about her; the trees along the roadside were 
swaying their branches to and fro, and the distant hooting of 
the owl seemed to follow her to the very edge of the village. 
There the streets were deserted, and the silence was broken only 
by the sound of the clock as it rang out the midnight hour. 

“Twelve-fifteen,” she whispered. “I won’t have long to wait.” 

When she entered the depot, she found some half dozen 
men sitting about the waiting-room, but with only a glance in 
their direction, she walked to the ticket window. 

“Not going back to school now, are yon, Miss Wilton?” 
the ticket agent asked, as she called for a ticket to Baltimore. 
“No sir,” she replied, in a voice that slightly trembled, and 
she laid the money before him and closed her purse which 
contained only a few remaining dollars. 

The whistle of the locomotive sounded and she hurried to 
the platform. The huge black monster came puffing in, and for 
the first time in her life, she climbed upon the steps without a 
good-bye kiss or a word of farewell. Settling down in a seat 
near the window she burst into tears, and as the train flew 
on she thought of her first journey to Baltimore. How different 
would it be now if Dale Clinton were with her — a friendly 
voice, a kindly beaming face to cheer her lonely, aching heart — 
how gladly would she welcome his presence. She had learned 
that he was not what he had seemed to her then. But Dale 
Clinton was far away in his southern home, and her thoughts 
wandered from him, back to her own southern home, once so 
dear to her. 


220 


ROSELIN 


Clad in a soft blue kimono, Lillian lay back among her 
pillows, the following morning, waiting for her sister, who 
had promised to tell her all about the necklace. It had been 
found, and how glad she was that Genevieve was innocent; 
but why had Wilma refused to answer, the night before, when 
she had asked where it had been found? Wilma would come 
soon and tell her, and she waited anxiously for her arrival. 

“Bring me my pen, Clarice,'' she said, “and another pillow. 
I must write, at once, and tell Genevieve how sorry I am that 
I so wrongly judged her. She went away heart-broken, I 
know, and I never told her that I, for one, could forgive. Now 
I must ask her to forgive and forget how we wronged her. 
You may leave me now; and tell papa that I feel quite strong 
this morning." 

“Is Willard home from Boston?" she asked hurriedly, as 
Clarice started from the room. 

“He is going on west for two weeks, I think Mr. Allington 
said last evening." 

“Going west, Clarice? He didn't tell me when he left." 

“It's other business. Miss Lillian, and your father sent a 
message from the office. He told me to send an extra suitcase 
to Boston for him." 

“Oh, I’m sorry, for I want Willard at home;” and Lillian 
could scarcely keep back the tears. 

'Twas a pathetic letter that she wrote to Genevieve, full of 
love and sympathy, sorrow and self-accusation. “Yes, Gene- 
vieve, I did wrong; and I hardly dare to hope for your for- 
giveness,” she wrote; “but I have suffered so much since you 
left me; and when I look at myself in the mirror, I sometimes 
think you would not know me; but if you were here — if I 
could put my arms about your neck and tell you how changed 
the future is for me, while yours, Genevieve, will surely be 
so bright and happy — I know you would kiss me and promise 
to forgive, and forget the day when once my love and trust 
failed you. Believe me, Genevieve, from this moment I shall 
be true to you forever, and I pray God that my life may yet be 
one of usefulness for Him." 

Tears had dimmed the blue eyes when she finished, and 
with an exhausted hand she laid down the pen. Wilma was 


LEAVING RO SELIN 


221 


coming up the hall, for she heard her step, and a faint color 
came to her cheeks as she came in. 

*‘Tell me about it,’' she said simply, and wearily she turned 
her face to watch that of her sister. 

In a few words Wilma told the story of Grace and the 
rubies. And as she finished, Lillian’s sad blue eyes looked 
up into hers. 

“Send Grace to me, Wilma. I refused to see her yester- 
day, when she came home, but now, I must see her.” 

“Send her to you, Lillian — ^you, who have not called her 
name for weeks past — ^you, who become excited when she is 
near you? What has possessed you now that you know the 
worst?” 

“I have learned the lesson of forgiveness, Wilma. I can 
forgive and forget her sin and help her to atone for the wrong 
she has done. I turned from Genevieve; I shall not turn from 
Grace; and in helping her, I can atone for my own sin.” 

“Why do you turn to her now, when during all your sick- 
ness you have turned from her?” Wilma demanded, standing 
back and gazing at the white face. The expression was un- 
changed. 

“I have so much to forgive ; but it is God’s will and I have 
grown reconciled to the life I must live. I can live on, and 
forgive as I hope to be forgiven.” 

“Nonsense, Lillian, you have grown to be quite a baby of 
late. Grace shall not leave her room.” 

“Oh, Wilma, for me, let her come! Papa would not re- 
fuse — you cannot. Let her come, Wilma,” Lillian pleaded. 

“She may come, but I shall not see her,” Wilma said at 
last, turning from the room. 

As Lillian said, she had learned to accept life as God willed 
it and, in days past, she had asked herself the question: Could 
Grace have resisted Llewellyn’s caresses? Could she herself 
have resisted that tender, loving voice which had so deeply 
pained her on that sad night? Who could resist Llewellyn? 
After all was Grace to blame? And yet Gr^ce was unforgiven, 
and involuntarily she shrank from her, while deep in her heart 
she had forgiven her deceitful lover; for the sake of her love 
for him, she had forgiven; but in vain she strove to forget — 


222 


ROSELIN 


to cease to love. Now she had found Genevieve innocent and 
she had fully decided to forgive Grace her every wrong- 
doing, and live her life, pure, true and forgiving; but Grace 
was gone from Roselin. Lillian looked with sad, tearless eyes 
into Ellen’s as she told her that she could not be found; her 
room had been unoccupied the night before and her hat, with 
several dresses and other things, were gone from the room. 

“Where can she be? Where has she gone — alone and at 
night?” Lillian asked, her thin hands clasped and her eyes 
raised pleadingly to Wilma’s undisturbed face. 

“I cannot say where she is, and you need not trouble your- 
self about her absence, Lillian, for papa will never make an 
effort to bring her back to Roselin, even for you. It is best 
that such a character has vanished from our home,” was the 
calm reply. 

Tears rolled softly down Lillian’s cheeks when she was 
again left alone. 

“Oh, how great are Grace’s sins,” she murmured; “and yet, 
how gladly would I put forth my every effort to win her back 
to truth and purity, if I could only reach her; but I have waited 
long and now it is too late, for she has flown — the girl who 
has come between me and my future happiness — who has 
taken love and joy from my life — ^but Llewellyn loves her, 
and my heart aches to tell her how hard I am striving to for- 
get.” 

Days passed and no word came from Grace; but a letter 
came saying that Mrs. Allington would reach Roselin on the 
day following the arrival of her letter. This news was quite 
unwelcome to the master of Roselin and his daughter. The 
servants, too, dreaded the scene which was sure to take place 
upon her arrival; but to her husband it did not occur that 
she would doubt his word when he told her of her daughter’s 
guilt. She would only be astonished and grieved, but the con- 
genial atmosphere of Roselin would be disturbed by the presence 
of its mistress. 

On the morning of her arrival the sun was shining brightly 
upon the black, damp earth, upon which a light rain had re- 
cently been falling. Mr. Allington went in the carriage for 
her. 


LEAVING ROSELIN 


233 


“See that the house is as bright as possible, Wilma. Evelyn 
will be grieved when she hears of Grace’s disgrace. She has 
wandered sadly from her mother’s training, and from Roselin, 
as well, and you must make our home as bright and cheerful 
as possible for her return,” he said, as he left Wilma in the 
hall. 

“I dare say Roselin will be bright enough when she re- 
turns,” she laughed, as she watched the carriage drive away. 
“It will be bright with the flash of stolen rubies, on the tips 
of blazing tongues. Evelyn Allington’s eyes will be more pierc- 
ing than the point of a polished sword, when Grace is accused 
of theft. They will need nothing more to brighten our home, 
and I dare say the battle will end by crowning me mistress 
of Roselin;” and Wilma was not mistaken. 

Mrs. Allington’s first question, after greeting her husband, 
was of Grace, and resolving that he might as well tell her 
at once, he began his story as they started toward Roselin, tell- 
ing her first of Genevieve’s accusation. When he finished de- 
scribing the scene with Grace in the little sitting-room, she in- 
terrupted him. 

“You shall go no farther,” she said, firmly. “You do not 
realize what you are saying.” 

“I am telling you the sad truth, Evelyn. I am telling you 
that Grace is guilty of taking, from Wilma’s jewel case, her 
ruby necklace, and all her efforts of explanation are so weak, 
that they bear no weight.” 

“You forget yourself, James. You are speaking to your 
wife — the mother of the child whom you accuse.” She faced 
him with a gaze of defiance. “You cannot force me to be- 
lieve her guilty! I have watched over her through the nine- 
teen years of her life and never have I known the slightest 
sin to darken her character. I tell you, ’tis all false ! I can 
scarcely wait to reach Roselin and be once more with my ac- 
cused darling. The poor child needs my comfort and Tve left 
her alone so long.” 

“I think she can do very well without your comfort,” Mr. 
Allington returned, biting his lip to hide his wrath; “and be- 
sides you will not find her at Roselin.” 

“What do you mean? Grace not at Roselin? Pray tell me 
where is she? I shall go to her at once!” 


224 


ROSELIN 


“I do not know where you will find her. She told no one 
of her intentions, but she acknowledged her guilt by stealing 
away from Roselin at night.” 

‘‘James Allington, how can I ever forgive you? You have 
driven her to this ! How dared you !” 

The unshed tears, which had been glistening in her eyes, 
seemed suddenly turned to burning coals of fire, and her white 
fingers grasped his arm. “Tell me how dared you?” she re- 
peated. 

He roughly shook her hand from his sleeve. 

“I think I have some authority in my own house, have I 
not?” he returned scornfully. “And after all it was not my 
order that she obeyed when she left Roselin, for I had told 
her to remain in her room. She disobeyed me — she left Roselin 
without my consent.” 

They drew up before the gate and the carriage stopped: 

“I will see you later,” Mr. Allington said, assisting her to 
alight. 

“You must not wait long if you want to see me, for where 
Grace cannot stay, I shall not remain longer than is absolutely 
necessary.” 

Mr. Allington did not reply and she hurried on up the 
walk. Wilma met her in the hall and greeted her with the 
grace of a mistress addressing a servant. From Mrs. Ailing- 
ton’s face she knew that the battle had already begun, and she 
smiled to herself as she watched the trim figure ascend the 
stairs. 

An hour later Robert Layton met Delia on the lawn. She 
had come out from the village in another carriage and was 
now engaged in carrying in a part of Mrs. Allington’s baggage. 

“I have a note for Mrs. Allington. Can I trust it to you?” 
he asked. 

“Certainly, I shall give it to her at once,” Delia replied, tak- 
ing the note from his hand and turning toward the house. She 
found her mistress in her sitting-room, her face still buried 
in the pillows of the divan, but drying her tears she eagerly 
grasped the note. 

“My dear Mrs. Allington: — 

“I feel it my duty to tell you at once, that Grace is safe 


LEAVING ROSELIN 


225 


in Baltimore with Genevieve. They have the same room at 
the Moreland Place and Genevieve is glad to have the dear 
girl with her. 

. “Mrs. N. Layton.” 

A look of relief flashed across Mrs. Allington's features, and 
she turned to her maid. 

“Delia,” she said, “I’m going to Baltimore this evening, 
then Grace and I are going to Vale Cottage. I want you to 
see to the packing of all my belongings and follow us in a 
few weeks.” 

With mouth and eyes wide open, Delia stood for a moment 
looking at her. 

“I will explain to you more fully, later, Delia, but I wish 
to see Mr. Allington now.” 

“I have learned, easily enough, where my child is,” she be- 
gan, as she entered the library and advanced toward her hus- 
band’s chair, her eyes again sharp and flashing. “And I’ve come 
to tell you that I’m going to her on the evening train.” 

“Prove her innocent before you bring her again under this 
roof,” Wilma commanded, drawing near the back of her father’s 
chair. 

“Ah, child, do not worry; there is another roof far more 
dear to us both, than the one which is now above me, and 
neither of us can have a desire to visit the place where Grace 
has been hated and accused.” She turned to Mr. Allington and 
continued : “We shall leave Roselin as nearly as possible as we 
found it. Delia will see to the packing of Grace’s belongings, as 
well as my own, together with the pictures and furniture which 
I moved here from Vale Cottage; and in that little southern 
home I hope to find, again, a part of the happiness I left there 
seven years ago.” 

“Evelyn, do you mean that you are going back to Vale 
Cottage to live alone — you and Grace ?” 

Mr. Allington arose and came toward her. 

“I do,” she replied, firmly. 

“Evelyn, you cannot leave Roselin ! You forget that you 
are now mistress of Roselin and your duty lies here.” 

“Where Grace is, there my duty lies; and I tell you I shall 
leave Roselin today. I’m going to Grace and you haven’t the 
authority to keep me.” 


15 


226 


ROSELIN 


She struggled from his grasp and rushed from the room; 
he stood silently gazing at the door through which she had 
vanished. 

“Does she really intend to go? What can I do, now, to keep 
her?’' he asked weakly. 

Wilma stood looking at him, a smile curling her proud, 
scornful lips. 

“Can you wish to keep her when she prefers Grace Wilton — a 
thief — rather than you — her husband, the master of Roselin?” 
she asked. 

“No! She shall leave Roselin as she wishes. If she goes 
forever, I shall not put forth a hand to stop her,” he declared; 
and a gleam of hatred, which Wilma’s voice had aroused with- 
in him, shone from his eyes as he strode from the room and 
started toward the office. 

Mrs. Allington made hasty preparations for her departure, 
and long before train time, she was ready for the journey to 
Baltimore, and to Grace; and in her anxiety to be with her 
child, she scarcely gave the family at Roselin a thought. She 
could hear Wilma’s voice singing gay snatches of songs in the 
rooms below, but that was the only sound which came to her^ 
except the footsteps of the servants as they passed through the 
halls, until Clarice’s voice called softly from the opposite side 
of the half-closed door: 

“Miss Lillian wishes to see you, Mrs. Allington. She is 
weaker and more excited than she has been for days, so please 
come at once.” 

Mrs. Allington arose and followed her to Lillian’s room. In 
a silk kimono, she lay back among the pillows, her face as 
white almost as the pillows about her, but a slight flush came 
to her cheeks as Mrs. Allington drew near. 

“I’m so glad you came,” she said, extending her hand to- 
ward her. “They didn’t tell me you were here, till I heard your 
voice.” 

Mrs. Allington leaned forward and kissed the cheek which 
was now burning. 

“I’m sorry you are sick, Lillian,” she said gently, looking 
down at the face so unlike Lillian’s as she remembered it. 

“Please tell me, where is Grace? Wilma says that you 


LEAVING RO SELIN 


227 

know and that you are going to her at once. Fm so glad, 
and you will bring her home with you, will you not?” Lillian 
looked up into the brown eyes, which slowly filled with tears. 

“No, Lillian, we are going home to Vale Cottage again — Grace 
and 1. She is in Baltimore with Genevieve, and I am going there 
this evening. God knows Grace is innocent of what your father 
accuses her; but we can never return to Roselin.” 

“Then Fll never see her.” Lillian murmured weakly; then 
after awhile she continued : “Tell her, I have forgiven her and 
am striving to forget. She will understand, and I trust hers 
will be a life of happiness.” 

“I will tell her, Lillian, and my prayer is, that you may 
grow strong soon, and some day be happy as the wife of your 
young physician.” 

With a quick breath Lillian turned from her. 

“No, that happiness is not for me. My life is changed, but 
I can not tell you now. Fm sorry you are going away from 
us and I hope you will find Grace as true and innocent as you 
think.” 

“I have no fear, Lillian ; I know she is innocent. I must 
go now, dear.” 

She kissed the girl tenderly and tears fell upon the golden 
curls as the white arms were wound closely about her neck, 
then taking the cold white hands, she pressed them lovingly 
in hers. 

“May God bless you, Lillian, and yet crown your life with 
happiness as you deserve,” she said; then slowly left the room. 

Lillian turned wearily to the window and looked out upon 
a group of servants, gathered to bid farewell to their mistress. 
In every face was written sorrow and disappointment, and tears 
glistened in several eyes as they took the daintily gloved hand 
and listened to her kind words of farewell. 

As the clock struck six, the carriage drove away. Mrs. Ailing- 
ton was gone, and Wilma was again mistress of Roselin. 


228 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXXVII 

AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 

The sun was swinging above the rose and golden waters of 
the bay when Lillian opened her eyes and gazed from her 
hotel window, out toward the east. A cloud of pearly gray, its 
broken edge burnished with gold, floated beneath the blazing 
sun, whose bright rays streamed out over the water and fell 
with a ruby light upon the polished floor of the room. 

Lillian’s health had been only slowly improving and when 
the last days of August came, hot and dry, the doctor advised 
Mr. Allington to take her to a health resort. “The change will 
do more for her than my medicine,” he had said, and it had 
proven more beneficial than Mr. Allington had ever hoped. 

Even the few days of their stay at the S Hotel had 

brought a faint color to her cheeks ; her eyes had grown 
brighter and her step less feeble. 

“It is all so beautiful here,” she murmured, slipping into her 
flowered dressing gown and crossing the room. “It seems to me 
that the sun will surely rise again for me, just as it does above 
that huge expanse of water, tinting the dense gray with orange, 
ruby and rose. God help me to forget the past and live only 
for the future.” 

She leaned her cheek upon her hand and looked out along 
the shore, where, dotted here and there over the sand, groups 
of people were already gathering. Presently her father’s foot- 
steps interrupted her thoughts and she turned to the door, 
which opened to admit him. 

“I’m feeling quite strong this morning,” was her reply to his 
inquiry. “So strong, in fact, that I think I shall go out along 
the beach immediately after breakfast.” She pointed toward 
the people along the shore. 

“Pm glad you feel so well, but I fear the exertion will be 
too great for you just yet,” he replied calmly. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


229 


“Oh, I know it will help me, papa!’’ she exclaimed, with a 
note of disappointment. 

“A short walk at a time, then, Lilly. Tm going home today, 
you know, and you will be left entirely to the care of Wilma 
and Clarice.” 

“Yes,” she said, simply. 

“Would you like to go with me, dear?” he asked. 

“No, oh no; I have no desire to go now; I like it here,” 
was the answer. 

“And Willard will return from his western trip next week; 
and I’ll send him down here, ere long,” Mr. Allington con- 
tinued; “then if you are tired of this place, you may try some 
place else.” < 

“I think I shall like it best here,” she said. 

Mr. Allington took his watch from his pocket and looked 
at it a moment. 

“I shall have to hurry for my train, Lillian,” he said, re- 
placing it in his pocket; “but I shall run down, now and then, 
to see how rapidly you are improving, or I fear I shall not 
know you when you come home. Good-bye, dear.” 

“Yes, I am improving,” she said to herself, as he turned 
from the room; “and Willard will find me changed even when 
he comes down.” 

And changed she was when Willard found her two weeks 
later, strolling along the white, sandy beach, her colorless cheeks 
now rounded, and tinted with a sea-shell pink, a bright light 
shining in her eyes and a faint, sweet smile curving her lips. 
She was no longer the sad, frail invalid he had left at Roselin, 
nor was she the blithe, childish sister he had known a few 
months before. The love she had once given Llewellyn seemed 
lavished upon those about her and she moved among them with 
a smile of loving tenderness, giving sympathy and comfort to 
those who most needed it; but while others watched the young 
girl with smiles of love and admiration, her brother turned 
away, for he knew how the heart, beneath that calm, loving 
exterior was aching and longing for the love that was lost. 
His heart, too, had almost Jost its treasure and, now that he 
had heard from Lillian’s dear lips, how Genevieve had long 
been proven innocent before them all, and realized how it had 


230 


, ROSELIN 


purposely been kept from him, he crushed his wrath beneath his 
joy and his sympathy for his sister. 

only wish you were as happy as I hope to be when I 
receive the reply to this letter, Lillian,” he said, holding up a 
sealed letter as she entered his room one evening. 

She leaned over his shoulder. 

“Genevieve Layton,” she read aloud. “I hope the answer 
will please your most particular fancy, Willard; and if I 
rightly guess the contents of this,” she lightly touched the 
envelope, “I assure you I shall be happy, too.” 

On the following morning, while Willard and Lillian were 
out on the beach, Wilma went to her brother’s room to gather 
up the laundry, and carelessly she ran through the package of 
letters on the desk, 

“Oh, horrors ! Genevieve, indeed !” she exclaimed, holding 
up the letter addressed to Genevieve. “I dare not let that 
letter enter the office. Genevieve Layton shall never know its 
contents, whatever it may be, and as Clarice always gathers up 
the mail, Willard will be none the wiser.” 

She slipped it into her blouse as she spoke, and with an 
air of decision, replaced the others. 

“Collect the mail immediately, Clarice,” she said, entering 
her room ; and Clarice arose to comply with her request. 

With a steady hand she took the letter from the blouse 
and, opening it, drew forth the folded sheets. It was a declara- 
tion of love, which she perused line by line. Her proud lips 
drew straight and her eyes flashed angrily as she read her 
brother’s endearing words, written to the girl who should 
never be his wife — no never so long as it lay in her power 
to prevent it. She must never become a member of the Al- 
lington family. And now, the letter which Genevieve Layton 
would have held most dear was crushed in Wilma’s cruel, cold 
hands and torn to shreds. For awhile she sat thinking. 

“Willard Allington’s sister is still able to control his af- 
fairs,” she laughed, sneeringly, as she arose and opened the 
writing desk. 

Wilma had never written to Genevieve to acknowledge her 
false accusation and she determined to write to her now and 
end forever, if possible, Willard’s hope of winning her. If 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


231 


Genevieve played the part as Wilma felt sure she would, Wil- 
lard’s love would die, just as Lillian’s had. But if she failed 
to play that part? — she could only hope that other plans would 
come to her aid ; so with careful thought and a determined 
hand she wrote the following: 

“Miss Genevieve Layton: — I realize my tardiness in ac- 
knowledging your innocency, but now that I beg your pardon, I 
feel sure that you will freely grant it. Lillian, I believe, stated 
fully our feelings in regard to the unfortunate affair, so it is 
useless for me to say more regarding a subject quite unpleasant 
to us both. My time has been quite entirely taken up by my 
sister’s illness; as well as by my brother’s love affairs; but 
now that Lillian’s health is so wonderfully improved, I find some 
time to waste for my own pleasures. 

“Please pardon my impertinence, if I write in a more 
personal manner than you perhaps think necessary; but I 
feel it my duty to tell you (both for your own sake and that 
of my brother) that Willard is in love — deeply in love. Once 
he thought he loved you, and I believe told you as much ; but now 
that he has found his true love, it is his wish, as well as that 
of the family, that you forget those trivial love affairs and 
free him from the bonds which he feels still bind him. I advise 
you to write to him at once, that his wedded life may be 
happy. 

“Yours sincerely, 

“Wilma Allington.” 

“P. S. It may be best not to mention my letter as Willard 
shrinks from asking this favor of you. W. A.” 

That Genevieve would not mention her letter, she felt sure, 
and hastily sealing it she went, herself, to the postofhce, and 
with a smile of satisfaction returned to the hotel. 

“Have you seen about the boats for tonight, Willard?” she 
asked pleasantly, as she met him on the steps. “I’m determined 
to have a ride tonight, and I’m tired of the bay. The river is 
beautiful by night and quite safe above the dam.” 

“There are only a few boats on the river and they may all 
be taken now, Wilma; the bay is far more safe and I think 
Lillian still enjoys it,” Willard answered. 


232 


ROSELIN 


^‘Nevertheless, I wish to go on the river tonight, for my 
own pleasure. Lillian will enjoy it quite as well.” 

“I’ll see what I can do, and if a boat can be procured, Til 
order a car to drive us up there,” Willard answered, after a 
moment’s thought. 

The boat was procured, and shortly after sunset, the little 
party of three alighted from the automobile at the landing, a 
mile and a half above the dam. In the moonlight they could 
dimly discern other boats as they paddled up the stream; and 
the soft splash of the water, as it rippled over the paddles, 
floated musically on the breeze. In the distance they could 
see the brilliant lights, dancing above the rushing waters of 
the dam; then suddenly a bend in the river hid the blazing 
signal of danger from view and they paddled on up the river, 
lighted only by the silvery moonlight, which danced along in 
sparkling flecks of silvery light over the rippling surface. For 
more than an hour they paddled up the river, creeping slowly 
along the shaded shores or dashing up the center of the stream, 
and now and then as the boy paused, to point out to them 
some object of particular interest, the little boat floated silently 
back with the current. 

“I’m tired tonight, and my head aches dreadfully,” Lillian 
said at last, passing her hand over her brow, from which a 
lacy scarf had fallen. 

“Perhaps we had better return,” Willard suggested; and 
regardless of Wilma’s complaining remarks he told the boy 
to turn back. 

Swiftly they floated down the stream and the boy, with his 
oars resting on the edge of the boat, sat idly watching Lillian 
and Willard who sat facing him. 

“Isn’t that our landing?” Lillian asked suddenly, pointing to- 
ward the shore where a launch (the only boat in sight) was 
landed. 

“Looks something like it, but you see the lights at the dam 
are not yet in sight,” the boy replied; and they floated on 
down the river. 

Presently they noticed that the boat was moving at a more 
rapid rate and the boy sat straight and looked about. 

“Can’t be that we are near the dam,” he remarked. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


233 


'‘Are the lights always kept burning or do they sometimes 
fail?'’ Willard asked, with a note of alarm in his voice. 

“Fve been on this river for several years ; and I never 
knew them to fail. They've burned from sunset till sunrise 
the. year around," the boy replied with an air of assurance, 
dipping his oars in the water. With a powerful stroke he 
pulled up stream but their speed down stream seemed only to 
increase. “There seems to be something wrong," he exclaimed, 
paddling wildly against the current, but 'twas of small avail ; 
the water was rushing wildly about them, carrying the little 
craft nearer and nearer the dam; and in a space of breathless 
silence they could hear the rushing roar of the falling waters. 
Instantly Willard grasped the oars from the boy’s hands, and 
with strong, steady strokes battled with the rushing torrent; 
but his efforts served only to retard their speed down stream. 
The boy called for help. 

“A launch can safely come this far, but nearer the dam — I 
doubt if they can reach us !” he exclaimed, excitedly, and Wilma’s 
proud voice, broken with sobs, joined in the cry for help. 

“Some one will come to our rescue; I know they will. They 
will save us before we reach the falls," Lillian kept murmur- 
ing; and in a soft, trembling voice she breathed an earnest 
prayer for help. 

It was Lillian’s hopeful words, just audible above the roar 
of the water, that helped Willard in his strong fight against 
the death they were facing. That the helpless craft would be 
dashed over the dam, before help could reach them, he felt 
sure; but Lillian, pale and calm, was so confident that a watery 
grave was not to be their fate, that he struggled bravely against 
the current. 

“Help ! help !" rang out above the rushing roar ; then, min- 
gled with it, came the sound of a launch, and lights flashed 
out over the water toward them. Help was near — but would 
they venture, at the risk of their own lives, so near the dam? 
Could they reach them before they were carried over the falls? 
Nearer and nearer they came. A voice called out to them. 
A thrill of hope vibrated in the hearts of those who were face 
to face with death. A moment later the same voice 
called again; a rope came whirling through the air; with 


234 


ROSELIN 


a splash it fell across the boat and into the water. With 
hands made strong by mingled hope and fear, Willard 
grasped it. Instantly it tightened and slowly the little boat was 
drawn near the launch. 

"‘All safe?” shouted the voice, which to them now sounded 
strangely familiar. 

“All safe,” Willard shouted in return; and still clinging to 
the rope which had brought them back from death, they were 
drawn quickly in to shore and safety, behind the launch which 
had rescued them. It had scarcely touched land when a man, 
tall and straight, sprang upon the shore and rapidly drew in 
the rope. The boat safely landed, Lillian, weak and ex- 
hausted, with her brother’s arm around her, arose to her feet. 

“How can we thank you enough, sir !” she exclaimed, address- 
ing the man on the shore. “I shudder to think of the danger 
we have faced, and from which your bravery and kindness has 
saved us. Ere this we should have been beneath the cold, 
dark waters of the river. Oh, how can we ever repay you?” 

Her voice was soft and sweet and the words came with 
trembling breaths. 

The man’s stern face, shaded by a broad brimmed hat, paled ; 
his firm lips trembled, and for an instant he silently recoiled 
from the fairy form of the girl he had saved from death; then 
suddenly — almost involuntarily — he stretched out his hands to 
assist her. She placed one cold little hand in his, and as he 
gently helped her to the ground, a sudden thrill shook her, and 
her big blue eyes were raised to the face above her — pale and 
sad, a look of longing, undying love beaming from his eyes — 
sad, hopeless. 

“Llewellyn!” she murmured softly, in quick surprise; and 
yet there was more of love, more of tenderness, in her tone 
than astonishment. 

For a moment her hand lingered within the circle of his 
warm clasp. Then quickly she drew it from him. A look of 
pain made its transient passage across her pallid features; her 
eyes drooped, and silently she turned from him. 

“Oh ! Lillian ! you have no word for me now ?” he asked, in a 
low voice of pleading pathos. 

Willard sprang from the boat at that moment. 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


235 


“Greymore! Is it possible that you are our rescuer?’^ he ex- 
claimed, heartily shaking his hand. 

Lillian turned toward them and quickly extended her arms 
out to them through the darkness which had suddenly sur- 
rounded her. Her slender figure swayed and her breath came 
quick and fast, past white parted lips. 

Instantly Llewellyn, who stood nearest her, was at her side, 
and with his arms around her, she lost consciousness. Gently 
he laid her into her brother’s arms and vainly striving to com- 
pose himself, he turned to Wilma, who was yet unaware of her 
sister’s condition. 

“I, myself, am surprised to find that I have assisted in res- 
cuing dear friends, instead of mere strangers, as I had sup- 
posed until a moment ago,” he said, in response to her words of 
thanks. ‘‘I fully realize the horrors you experienced during 
those terrible moments, when you faced death amid the rushing 
torrents.” 

He hastily left her, and hurrying to the launch, returned with 
a small medicine case. Kneeling down beside the prostrate 
form of the girl he loved, he put forth every effort to restore 
consciousness. The pillows from the launch were placed upon 
the grass and the face lying back upon them gleamed white in 
the pale moonlight. It had sadly changed since Llewellyn Grey- 
more had last seen it, round and rosy, and as he looked down 
upon the closed lids, with the long lashes lying darkly against 
the cold cheeks, he sighed and bent lower over her. His Lil- 
lian; the flower of his aching heart; the girl he still loved — 
would always love — more than his own life — he had brought 
her back from death; he had saved her from a grave beneath 
the rushing falls. In silence he had listened to her question of 
“how can we ever repay you?” and now, could he answer her 
truthfully? Could he say, “Give me your love, your heart, your 
hand, darling, and I shall be repaid?” Could he tell her that 
until that hour should come, his heart would ache on? The 
sparkling diamond ring, which only a few months before had 
encircled her finger, now lay near his heart ; and with the mem- 
ory of his rejected love he bowed his head for a moment. No! 
those dear white hands had cruelly stabbed him, and he could 
not tell her. Life must continue as it had since last they 


236 


ROSELIN 


parted. He must forget this night — he must erase it from his 
memory and live on — interested only in his profession — in the 
welfare of the world in general — standing always in the right — 
ministering to the sick and encouraging those whose paths are 
darkened. 

For a moment he was left alone with her, and bending low, 
he tenderly pressed his lips to her brow. Could she have known 
the tender love of his noble heart — her aching heart would have 
wildly bounded and the flickering flames of love would have 
burned brighter; but as consciousness returned he moved slowly 
away from her side. 

^‘It was only the effect of the fright and excitement,” he said 
in a low, professional tone, which fell upon Lillian^s ears and 
caused her to shudder as her thoughts flew back to the night 
when he had addressed Grace in tender, loving words — the night 
that her own heart had been pierced so deeply. 

*‘rm glad that I was sent to assist you at that perilous mo- 
ment,” he continued. ‘‘I came from Chciago only a week ago to 
assist in an operation — a near relative of my father — a place 
some distance up the river — and they insisted that I should run 
down here, to see if this was a suitable place to send the pa- 
tient for a few weeks. Luckily I chose this for my day of in- 
vestigation. I was preparing ior my return when the lights — 
which I understand were never before known to fail — went 
out. We did not see your boat as it passed the landing, but for 
some reason — I can scarcely explain — we hesitated about start- 
ing on our way up stream. A divine power must have been 
guiding us; and I trust it may continue to guide us in the right 
direction, as it has tonight. I leave for Chicago tomorrow, so 
it is quite necessary for me to go now.” 

Lillian listened as he bade her brother and sister a hasty 
good-bye, and with tears glistening on her lashes she watched 
him enter the launch and disappear up the stream. He had 
bravely rescued them from death, but she had greeted him as 
she would a stranger, save for the name breathed involuntarily 
in the unguarded moment when first she recognized him, and 
now he — the man to whom all her precious love was given — 
had left her without a word of farewell. But what did it mat- 
ter to her? Had she not sent him away from her, without re- 


AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 


237 


gard for his wish to see her? With a single glance at his face 
she had found it pale and thin. The lines about his mouth had 
deepened and his manner, too, had changed. After all had he 
really cared, or was it only her imaginative fancy which had 
changed Llewellyn Greymore? Perhaps, even now, he was go- 
ing back to Chicago to a beloved and happy wife, for had she 
not heard his endearing words to another? Had she not heard 
him call another ^‘darling/’ his ‘^own little sweetheart,’^ so lov- 
ingly, tenderly spoken that the last words came in a low whis- 
per, which vibrated upon the air almost inaudibly? No; he 
could not care, and as they had met and parted on this occa- 
sion, so they must live — always strangers. 

Llewellyn had attributed the cause of her unconsciousness to 
the excitement of the moment when death had stood out before 
them; but Lillian, bravest of them all, had not for a moment 
looked with horror upon death, even though her grave be be- 
neath dark, rushing waters, and while her lips had trembled 
with a prayer for safety; while her heart had throbbed with a 
hopeful assurance, her will was wholly reconciled to that of 
the Master, and both brother and sister knew that it was due 
more to the surprise of meeting again her deceitful lover, than 
to the shock of that moment when, with every breath, they 
seemed drawn nearer to death and eternity. 

^‘Take me home, Willard; back to Roselin,” she murmured, 
raising dark, burning eyes to his. ‘‘I cannot stay here longer; 
all the joys Pve had are flown and I want to go home to 
Roselin.” 

After that night nothing at the seashore could interest her; 
nothing could take from her mind the memory of that meeting 
up the river, whose waters she could see from her window, con- 
tinually flowing into the calm, blue ocean. Llewellyn’s dark 
form seemed to stand out before it all, and her plea to return 
to Roselin continued, until one bright, warm morning, near the 
last of September, they started homeward ; and as . the ocean 
faded in the distance she bravely strove to bury there the mem- 
ory of their unexpected meeting with Llewellyn. 


238 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

THE RESULT OF WILMA’S PLAN 

As THE autumn neared the winter months, Wilma urged her 
father to leave Roselin and go to Boston, insisting that the 
change was best for Lillian, who remained unchanged. There 
were times when she would ride with Willard or go on long 
tours with her father in the automobile; then again she would 
spend whole days in her room, never weeping but always sad. 

^Tn Boston I’m sure she will improve. Society will interest 
her, and ere long she will have forgotten her childish love. The 
memory of Llewellyn will be only a relic, in Boston, where 
other admirers surround her,” argued Wilma. 

Lillian was satisfied at Roselin. She wished for no change, 
but when her father told her that he had decided to spend the 
winter in the city, she made no complaint and they began at 
once preparations for their departure. 

One day as Clarice was busily engaged in Wilma’s room, 
taking her dresses from the wardrobe, Lillian sat silently watch- 
ing her as she laid them, one after another, upon the bed, and 
now and then she fingered the rich laces or smoothed the silky 
fullness ; and as she shook out the folds of a filmy gown, she 
caught a gleam of red amid its cream laces. Again she held it 
up before her and a sudden cry burst from her lips. Wilma, 
who had entered the room only a moment before, looked up 
from the frock she was folding, and an exclamation of aston- 
ishment came from her lips, for her eyes fell upon the thin, 
filmy dress she had worn on that afternoon among the family 
jewels, and among its soft folds, caught in the dafnty laces, 
gleamed her own ruby necklace. 

While gathering up the other jewels the laces had swept 
over it; and it had become securely fastened there. She had 
locked and replaced the cases, with no thought of the necklace, 
and turned at once to arrange her toilet for dinner. As Clarice 
had been busy at that moment, she herself had thrown the dress 
carelessly upon the hook in the wardrobe, where it had hung 


THE RESULT OF WILMA^S PLAN 


239 


ever since — hiding the lost rubies. But now that the mystery 
was solved and Grace, too, proven innocent (and upon compar- 
ing them with those which rightfully belonged to Grace), Wilma 
exclaimed : 

“How could I have thought them mine ! They are so differ- 
ent — even more expensive perhaps! You may take them now 
and do as you like with them and into Lillian's hands she 
placed Llewellyn's gift to Grace. 

“I'll send it to Vale Cottage," she said, with a slight shud- 
der, for she wondered if it would find Grace there — or would it 
be sent on to an elegant home in Chicago to be worn by the 
wife of Dr. Greymore. Silently she slipped away to her own 
room and placing it upon the table, stood looking at it, and 
within her a silent voice seemed to echo : “Ah, you beautiful 
jewel! Grace loved you because you were Llewellyn's gift. She 
would not tell, but 'tis no longer a hidden secret; I know he 
saw you; he admired you; he purchased you and gave you to 
Grace — the girl he truly loved." 

To Lillian the thought was entirely new. Quite suddenly 
had it come to her but she felt that it must be true, for, now 
that she paused to think, she remembered that Llewellyn had 
given Grace a gift — they had spoken of it that night on the 
lake; and a wish to crush the jewel which Grace had so lov- 
ingly caressed, came over her, and hurriedly pushing them from 
her, she turned to the window. 

“I will do what is right; I will be true to myself and to 
them," she murmured, as the first bitter pangs of jealousy 
ceased and the rosy flush faded from her cheeks. “Come what 
may, I shall remain always faithful. What more can I do than 
my duty? I loved Grace, and I love her still and — and Llew- 
ellyn — my love for him cannot die !" she exclaimed. 

On the following morning her letter, together with that of 
her father, and the ruby necklace, started on its southward 
journey. It was a letter of love and forgiveness, mingled with 
a plea for her sister, who had so cruelly, though unintentionally, 
wronged her, and upon reading it, one could feel the grave sin- 
cerity of the writer. < Mr. Allington, while freeing Grace from 
all blame, and asking that they forget the whole unfortunate 
affair, urged them to return to the family in Boston, where 


240 


ROSELIN 


they expected to go the week following; and Lillian, after read- 
ing her father’s plea for their return, added a postscript to her 
own, in which she intimated that they were expected home. 
But no amount of urging, no matter how strong the argu- 
ment, could induce Mrs. Allington to return to them. Now 
there were no sorrows, no shadows to darken her pleasures and 
chase the sunshine from the field, and there was no desire to 
return to the life they had lived at Roselin. 

Great was the excitement among the servants at Roselin 
when they learned that Grace, too, had been wrongly accused 
and driven from the house by taunts and sneers and cruel, false 
words. Among themselves, they reviewed the troubles of the 
summer months and a cold feeling of enmity against Wilma 
arose among them and now, together with the false accusations 
of Grace and Genevieve, they laid at Wilma’s feet the trouble 
which had come between Lillian and Llewellyn. 

‘'Dat aih gal will be de deaf ob Lilly, de poh chil’ ; and Grace 
do mighty well when she lef’ dis’ heah hous’, eben tho ’twuz in 
de da’k, fo’ I’s a tellin’ yo’, ’twuz only de beginnin’ of de trouble 
dat would a come fo’ her an’ all de res’ of us,” old Nan de- 
clared, as the group broke up and each one took up their work 
where they had left it. 

A few days later the house at Roselin was closed and the 
family departed. 

For days Willard had been expecting an answer from Gene- 
vieve, but so far, he had received none. Each mail brought for 
him a disappointment, until at last, one day shortly after they 
were settled in Boston, the postman brought a letter bearing the 
Baltimore postmark, and as Willard took it from the library 
table, Wilma looked up . from her book with a quizzical smile 
and he went at once to the solitude of his studio. At last it 
had come — Genevieve’s reply to his letter. But quite unlike his 
own, it was thin, almost transparent — and with anxious fingers 
and fast beating heart, he hastily opened the envelope. In 
breathless silence he held the single sheet, for a moment, still 
unfolded. Could it be that that small piece of dainty linen held 
for him the key to future happiness? Could those few words, 
written by the hand so dear to him, satisfy him? Genevieve 
could not refuse his ardent plea, and ere long he would be with 


THE RESULT OF WILMA'S PLAN 


241 


; her — tell her in words, what he had written on paper — and hear 
from her own dear lips, her sweet words of consent to be his 
i wife. 

A moment later the paper slipped from his lingers and floated 
to the floor at his feet. With a heavy groan he sank into a 
; chair and his head bowed upon his hand. Genevieve’s answer — 
how cruel — how cold — how it stabbed a heart which was 
wholly and forever hers, crushing beneath it his hopes and 
plans for the future. For almost an hour he sat as motionless 
: as the bronze statue in the opposite corner of the studio; then 
; suddenly he arose and caught up the fallen sheet and slowly, 
thoughtfully read it again. 

“Willard : — ,” it began, “I trust you do not feel yourself 
bound to me by any of the trivial words of our childish love 
affairs and, I assure you, I shall think always of you only as a 
dear friend. Wishing you success and much happiness in your 
future life, I remain, 

“Your friend, 
“Genevieve Layton.” 

“‘Trivial words’; ‘childish love affairs’!” he repeated, half 
mournfully, half scornfully. “Does she think so lightly of my 
love? Could Genevieve — always so kind and gentle — speak so 
sneeringly of my appeal? Why has she waited until now to 
f show me that I could be no more to her than a ‘dear friend’? 

Has she not known that I loved her? Dear innocent Genevieve; 

' could she not guess my real feelings toward her? Yes! Yes! 
She knew ; she has always known, and now and then I fancied I 
could see the half hidden love beaming from her eyes, a tell- 
tale flush mount her cheeks, and a shy drooping of her lashes. 

< Was it all false? Was it only to deceive? Is Genevieve — my 
model — my ideal of sweet womanhood — false? After all, is she 
like Wilma and Marie and many others? Is Lillian the only 
one whose life is all purity and truthfulness, or has Genevieve, 
during the months since I last saw her, learned to love another? 

» Yes — perhaps it’s that. Chester Collins may have won' her — 
is now engaged. But how cold — how formal — is her note. How- 
f could she, after dashing from me and tearing to shreds my 
dearest hope, wish me success and happiness for the future, 
i which I had fondly hoped to share with her? Oh, those words — 


16 


242 


ROSELIN 


how they are filled with mockery and contempt for the love 
I have offered. I’ve lost and it is ended, but I shall still hold 
dear the memory of her as I knew her; but God grant that I 
may never meet her as the wife of another man.” 

He strode up and down the room, dashing aside, now and 
then, a book, a picture, or a pillow which seemed to offend him. 
He would not judge Genevieve falsely. He could not believe 
her false and untrue, and again she was to him the model of 
noble purity; but she had given her love to another, no more 
worthy of it than he. The thought frenzied him and he dashed 
madly from the house, scarcely realizing where his steps were 
leading him. Suddenly he drew up before a huge stone front 
building — the home of one of the young married men of so- 
ciety — and with only a glance at it, he turned and was about 
to retrace his steps, when a voice called to him: 

“Wait, Allington, don’t rush off in that manner. A few of 
us fellows are meeting here for the evening. Come in with us, 
can’t you? Bradley and his wife entertain royally; so come. 
No excuse, old fellow;” and without a word Willard allowed 
himself to be turned back. 

Many times he had been invited to spend evenings with this 
company of young men, but never before had he joined them; 
but now, feeling as he did, he could not return home. With the 
thought of the faded future burning in his heart and mind, he 
could not appear his usual self ; and he could imagine Wilma’s 
haughty sneers if she guessed what that letter from Baltimore 
had held for him, as no doubt she would if he met her that 
evening. On the morrow he would tell Lillian, and her sym- 
pathy would soothe him; but now — he must drive the thought 
from him and avoid, as long as possible, the meeting with his 
haughty sister. For one word against Genevieve, one sneering 
remark regarding his rejected love, he felt, would drive him to 
insanity; so with the hope of prolonging the time when the 
grave realities of the future must be faced, he entered the elab- 
orately furnished drawing-room and was cordially greeted by 
the host. 

Mrs. Bradley, it proved, was absent, and Bradley consequent- 
ly entertained more royally than he would have done in his 
wife’s presence, and Willard, for a time, succeeded in driving 


THE RESULT OF WILMA^S PLAN 


243 


from him all thought of Genevieve; for there, in the dining- 
room of the Bradley mansion, driven on by the sneers and jeers 
of his companions, he took his first social glass of wine. Wil- 
lard Allington, who had stood strongly against it when by the 
side of Llewellyn Greymore, during the old college days in Bal- 
timore, had at last fallen ; but in after years he grievously re- 
pented that first glass, for it did not prove to be the last. 

Instead of telling Lillian of Genevieve’s letter, as he had in- 
tended to do, on the following morning, he purposely avoided 
her, and for days he scarcely saw either her or his father. But 
Wilma bewildered him by her kind manner and sunny smiles. 
Never before had she treated him in the kind sisterly fashion she 
now assumed and, apparently, she knew nothing of the letter 
hidden away with the painting of its writer, or of his defeated 
hopes to win Genevieve for his wife. 

The painting which he had presented to Genevieve in mem- 
ory of their school-days came back to him, and in a state of 
hurried excitement, he ordered it taken to the studio. Wilma 
looked wonderingly at him, but he did not heed her. Upon 
taking the last covering from the picture, a small paper fell 
from it and Willard — alone, locked in his studio — hastily took 
it up and read the simple words : 

*T thank you for your kindness toward me and I shall great- 
ly miss your picture from my room, though I feel it my duty 
to return it.” 

“Confound it! Of course, Chester Collins’ wife can have no 
wish for it, but it is kind of her to say that she will miss it !” 
he exclaimed. “I should have expected it, after that letter. It’s 
a wonder that all my other little ‘trivial, childish’ gifts did not 
come with it, for what does she care for them now?” he con- 
tinued, in a voice of scorn which changed to one of pathetic 
sadness as he went on: “And for me — it can only remind me 
of what might have been — peace, love and happiness — all taken 
from me and given to that successful Collins, I presume; but 
I’ll strive to forget her; and if Lillian wins in her battle against 
love for Llewellyn, I — strong and wilful — can surely conquer.” 

Then the evening spent at Bradleys’ came up vividly before 
him. Would Genevieve have called him ‘strong and wilful,’ if 
she had seen him then, lifting the champagne glass to his lips? 


244 


ROSELIN 


Would she have been proud to have acknowledged his love? 

No; she would have turned from him; she would have scorned ' 
his weakness. 

“Yes; I was weak then,” he acknowledged, shamefully, to 
himself; “but it was only once. I’ll conquer my love; I zvill be - 
strong,” he declared emphatically, “for I must live it down, 
alone. I cannot tell Lillian now; her sympathy cannot soothe, , 
for if she knew how and where I spent that evening, she would \ 
turn from me. Can I fail to tell her all and yet accept her . 
sympathy? No; I must, alone, forget that I ever loved Gene- < 
vieve Layton.” 

Could Willard have seen the tear-stained notes she had first 
written, then crushed and torn them, and could he have read 
the dictations of her aching heart, he would not have been striv- 
ing to forget her. He little dreamed that she, too, was striving 
to conquer her love — that she had read over and over again his 
sister’s smooth, piercing, untruthful words instead of his own ' ' 
endearing ones. He did not know of her mind’s fanciful pic- ; 
tures, which always associated him with Marie Carrelton, nor 
of the tears shed during sleepless hours of the night. He could ‘ 
not imagine the loving words which the heart had almost com- ' 
pelled the hand to write upon the paper which had carried to ■ 
him only a cold, formal message — nothing of love — nothing of t 
hope. 

For him, life now seemed empty and, as days and weeks ' 
passed, he found that society could not fill the space which ten- ^ 
der hopes for the future had occupied, and much to Wilma’s ! 
chagrin he began refusing to attend the largest and most bril- 
liant parties and social functions to which they were invited. 
Most of his time was spent in the studio, at his work, and with V 
an air of assurance he refused all invitations which came to 
him. The horrified faces of both Genevieve and Lillian seemed ^ 
to float warningly before the cards of invitation which came ;■ 
from the young men he had once joined and they, too, were . 
refused. ^ 

To none of the young ladies would, he give his attentions — 
least of all to Marie — who was continually planning to throw i 
herself in his pathway and to whom he often found it difficult •! 
to be even polite. In fact, his manner toward her was some- 4' 


THE RESULT OF WILMA^S PLAN 


245 


times almost rude ; and while Wilma had almost given up hope 
of having Marie for a sister-in-law, she did not cease to plan. 
She had her at the house almost continually, and as much as 
possible in Willard’s company. At least Genevieve Layton 
would never be his wife and that was more than half the game. 
There she had succeeded and, though she should fail in this last 
plan, she felt that she would still be victor. 

Lillian, too, shrank from society, but she dared not offend 
her sister’s wishes, consequently she was continually mingling 
with the elegantly dressed throng of which her sister was a 
belle; and while many admirers thronged about the beautiful, 
brilliant Wilma, there were a few who looked deep into the 
heart of the pure, sweet Lilly and paid to her most loyal hom- 
age. This she accepted with the grace and sweetness of a fairy 
queen, and Wilma often assured her father that Llewellyn was 
forgotten. 

But Wilma was too intensely interested in the fascinating 
whirl of society to see more than the surface events of her sis- 
ter’s life. She herself had become engaged to Louis Mandel, 
who was now in Boston and who, seeing only the sweet winning 
side of her life, thought her still the most noble woman in the 
world. 

To Adelaide Richard he paid the most devoted attention until 
Wilma appeared, then carelessly he would turn from her, quite 
unaware of the tender love for him, throbbing in the heart of 
the one, and the piercing thorns, hidden beneath the smooth, at- 
tractive surface of the other. 


246 


ROSELIM 


CHAPTER XXXIX 

WILLARD’S PROMISE 

It was nearing the New Year when the plans for the grand 
Allington party came suddenly to an end because of the seri- 
ous and sudden illness of Mr. Allington, and instead of the gay 
throng which would have filled the spacious rooms, to watch 
the gray old year fade and die, only a small, sad group gath- 
ered in the quiet chamber where Mr. Allington lay. Mrs. Alling- 
ton had been sent for, and momentarily they were expecting her. 
Outside a soft, feathery snow was falling; surrounding the place 
with a dense grayness, and silently covering the cold, dark 
earth with a white, drifting blanket. Noiselessly it beat against 
the windows and drifted in soft, white waves across the broad 
piazza. No resounding of hoofs, nor crushing of wheels was 
heard, as the carriage drew up, and silently Mrs. Allington’s 
step fell upon the walk. But Lillian, standing at the window, 
straining her eyes that she might catch the first glimpse of the 
carriage, saw, through the fleecy cloud of snow, the dimly out- 
lined figure approaching, and turned quickly to Willard who 
stood at her side. 

“They’re here,” she whispered, and silently nodding, he left 
the room. 

As the door softly closed behind him, Mr. Allington moved 
restlessly. “Is Evelyn coming, at last?” he asked anxiously, 
and with the trained eye of a professional, the nurse bent over 
him. 

“Yes,” she said softly; “but must you see her at once?” 

“Yes, yes, at once!” he exclaimed, impatiently; then he con- 
tinued in a tone of authority; “send her to me, now; I shall not 
rest until I see her.” 

“I shall send her your message,” she replied, and moved 
from the room, leaving Wilma and Lillian alone with their 
father. 

“Wilma;” he called, when the door had closed behind her. 


WILLARD^S PROMISE 


247 


“Yes, papa, Tm here,’^ she said, coming close to the bed. 

“Evelyn has come at last, Wilma, and remember, she is my 
wife and must be treated as one of the family. Can I trust 
you, Wilma? Will you be kind to her and treat her in a man- 
ner more respectful than you have heretofore assumed?” 

“Do you wish me to assume something I do not feel?” she 
asked. “Is she more to you now, than during the years past? 
You never before asked this of me; why do you ask it now?” 

“Don’t, Wilma, don’t,” Lillian protested 'softly, but the words 
had already fallen reproachfully upon her father’s ears, and for 
a moment he was silent; then sorrowfully he continued between 
spells of coughing. 

“I have suffered much during the past month. Lillian's sor- 
rows are mine, also, and her frail health has deeply pained me, 
while Willard’s love affairs have cost me sleepless nights and 
hours of worry, and mingled with it all were the sad thoughts 
of my own affairs. Evelyn had left Roselin — my home — and 
with just cause. May God forgive us for misjudging her child 
— but Evelyn — how I have missed her. It has been during the 
days since I last saw her, that I have learned how much she 
really was to me. I have pleaded for her return, but she would 
not come, until now I am dying — for — Wilma — Lillian — my chil- 
dren — I know I shall never recover. The doctors need not 
strive to deceive me for I know I cannot live. The disease has 
securely fastened itself upon me and I feel that death is steadily 
approaching. The doctors perhaps have told you as much, for 
in your faces I can read hopeless sorrow and pain. Do not 
grieve for me, my dear ones, but for my sake, promise me this 
— pay to Evelyn Allington the respect you have always shown 
your father. Can you promise me this?” 

He paused and a fit of coughing ensued. 

Lillian’s face was buried in the pillow at his side, and con- 
vulsive sobs shook her frame, as she replied: “Though I had 
refused every other request, I could not refuse this.” 

Large, bright tears coursed their way down Wilma's cheeks. 
“I shall do my utmost to comply with your wishes,” she said. 
Then the door opened again, and Willard admitted Mrs. Alling- 
ton. She had removed the damp garments she had worn on 
her long, stormy journey, and now wore a soft, dark wool. 


248 


ROSELIN 


Mr. Allington was the first to see her, and raising himself from 
the pillow, he stretched his arms out to receive her. 

“Evelyn!” he exclaimed. 

Then Willard and his sisters withdrew and left them alone. 

The dim shadows of a winter’s twilight had fallen over No. 
5248 and a silver moon swung its slender crescent high in the 
pale, clear, star-bedecked sky, which over-arched a world white 
with drifted snow. The world seemed solemnly quiet and the 
reigning silence was broken only by the sound of Willard’s step 
as he hurried up the walk, bordered on either side by the banks 
of snow. 

Since he had left the house, on a short errand, Mr. Alling- 
ton had grown steadily worse. The coughing spells had be- 
come more frequent and more severe, and now and then his 
breath seemed almost lost. Continually he asked for his son. 

“He must come before it is too late; I must see him before 
I die,” he said again and again, between short struggling 
breaths, and a look of longing anxiety settled upon his face. 

“I do not shrink from death. I have lived my life and it 

has not all been wrong, but my son — my son — once more ” 

again he choked, and his words were lost. 

“Yes, you will see him. He will come, I know,” Mrs. Al- 
lington assured him. 

“ ’Tis only a short time now, but, doctor, you must save me 
until he comes.” 

Both Wilma and Lillian stood bravely by Mrs. Allington’s 
side, and as the coughing again ceased, he raised his eyes to 
their faces and a faint glow of love shone for an instant from 
their fading depths. 

“Willard, Willard,” he murmured again, and in another in- 
stant his son stood at the bedside. 

“I’m here, father; I returned as soon as possible,” he said, 
bending over him and gently pressing one hand in his. 

“Willard, my son!” he exclaimed; then after a while he 
went on. “There is only one thing I wish to say to you — my 
boy — one thing I wish to hear you say before my ears become 
forever deaf to the sounds of earth — to the voices I have loved. 
Tell me, Willard, that you will some day call Marie Carrelton 


WILLARD^S PROMISE 


249 


your wife. She loves you, and, I think, will make you happy. 
I have fought death in order to direct your footsteps, Willard; 
will you accept my dying advice and grant me this last request?'^ 

The other hand feebly sought his son’s, and the cold, weak 
fingers slightly pressed the strong, young hand. Silently Wil- 
lard’s face turned from him and a fierce struggle convulsed his 
heart. To him Genevieve was lost — forever lost — his father’s 
request could not affect that, but could his true, loyal nature 
bring itself to the task his dying father set before him? Could 
he kneel at the feet of the girl he did not love and profess for 
her that which he did not feel? — Love — the most sacred thing 
earth affords. Could he ever pay her the respect, the admira- 
tion, a husband should? His heart — his love — belonged wholly 
to another, while for Marie, he bore nothing except a feeling 
of contempt and dislike. Marie Carrelton his wife? Bound 
forever as her husband his life would be lost, but after all, what 
did life hold for him? Was not Genevieve — his heart — his 
love — lost, and without these what was life to him? Without 
love it held nothing of happiness, and it mattered little whether 
he lived it alone or as the husband of an unloved wife. 

Again his father struggled for breath and again he spoke. 

“Willard, my son, do you promise?” 

“Let me think, father; let me think. Marie Carrelton my 
wife ?” 

“Yes, yes,” he replied, and again his breath seemed forever 
gone. 

Willard’s head was bowed upon the hand which still lay 
upon his own, then instantly it raised. 

“Yes, father, I promise. If Marie will consent, she shall be 
my wife,” he said bending close to his father’s ear. 

“My son — may your life be happy — may you forget .” His 

words were lost, but Willard knew that he was thinking of 
Genevieve. His eyes closed and life seemed almost gone. Again 
Willard’s head sank down upon the icy hand. Lillian, kneeling 
by the side of Mrs. Allington’s chair, buried her face in the 
folds of her dress, while her hands clasped one of Wilma’s, who 
stood beside her, her tears falling silently upon her sister’s gold- 
en curls. Again he stirred and the nurse bending over him, 
caught the faint, whispered names of his children and lastly 
came the name “Evelyn.” 


250 


ROSELIN 


The howling voice of the cold, bleak wind died low. Faintly 
it murmured and moaned amid the bare, icy branches, its 
mournful tones echoing sadly in the silent chamber where the 
Angel of Death had so recently laid his icy hand. Cold, dim 
stars looked down upon the magnificent home, where the sad- 
faced wife ministered, tenderly and lovingly, to the weeping 
daughters, now bereft of both father and mother. Willard gazed 
solemnly out upon the night with unseeing eyes, then turned 
again and looked down upon the cold, rigid features of his 
father. 

‘'Oh, father, that I could call back the promise I gave you!” 
he exclaimed. “I would give all the wealth and luxury that 
shall ever surround me, just to recall it — the promise I have 
given to the dead — but it’s too late; my words are recorded in 
heaven, and I must accept the sorrows, the joys, which Marie 
Carrelton’s wealth may bring me.” 

He strode restlessly up and down the room, his hand pressed 
heavily upon his cold, perspiring brow. 

“Oh, why did he ask it? Why did I not linger longer at the 
office? Oh, that I could erase this night from my memory; 
that I could forget the hour which took from us our father and 
bound me, forever, to Marie Carrelton. Oh ! could he not real- 
ize his mistake? Can the Carrelton wealth make me happy? 
Genevieve — my love — my darling — could the Carrelton millions 
have bought my love from you? No! but you cast it aside as 
though it were nothing, and now, though you are lost to me, I 
would cast aside the Carrelton fortune and live my life alone 
— but now, I cannot — I cannot.” 

Again his eyes rested on his father’s face and he stood mo- 
tionless. 

“My home filled with wealth and luxurious splendor — my 
wife unloved ! Ah, father, you did not know your son ; I want 
something far more precious than wealth. You did not know 
that Genevieve was already lost to me; you did not know that 
I was striving to crush my love for her, and yet, you would 
ask me to give up that precious hope for the dollars in Marie 
Carrelton’s purse, and think that could make me happy. You 
strove to direct my footsteps toward wealth and luxury, and, 
as you thought, toward happiness ; but alas ! I see only a path 


WILLARD^S PROMISE 


251 


leading out midst darkest gloom. Wealth! Wealth! The very 
word mocks my love, my deepest sorrow. To you — to Wilma — 
it would mean the world’s choicest treasure, but to me — to 

me ! I shall not shrink from my promise; I shall follow 

that path to the end.” 

His cold stern face turned from the white, stony one, and 
his heart trembled and quaked, from the fierce storm which had 
swept over it. His eyes were burning and tearless, and his 
every movement indicated pain and sorrow. Again he looked 
out over the world, wrapped in its snow-white mantle, sparkling 
in the warming light of day. Above the eastern horizon, one 
rosy, rounded edge of the sun peeped, tinting the dull gray, 
with blazing lines of ruby and gold. 

Noiselessly the servants passed through the long, richly-car- 
peted halls, wiping away the tears, as they passed the chamber, 
where all night long Willard had watched by the side of the de- 
parted master. Perfect stillness reigned all about them, and 
with a feeling of awe and sadness, they went about their house- 
hold duties. 

Slowly the sunbeams brightened and with a sad, low music 
the melted snow-drops dripped one by one, from the closed 
shutters while, contrasting greatly with the whiteness around 
them, the dark knots of crepe continued to stream from the 
small clusters of white carnations fastened at every door-knob, 
telling to every passerby, the same sad story — a story of death 
and mourning. 

It was a cold moonlight evening when Willard and his sis- 
ters went back to Boston, to the magnificent home of which he 
was now master ; leaving behind them another dark, earthy 
mound beside their mother’s snow-covered grave, by the garden 
wall at Roselin, where the tall, gleaming marble pointed Heav- 
enward. 

Lillian, pale and worn, went at once to her room, and as 
Louis had called to see Wilma, Willard was left alone, and his 
thoughts went back to Marie — the girl who was to share his 
future, his fortune and his life. As yet, she knew nothing of 
his plans for the future; he must not wait or his courage would 
fail him, and he had promised to follow the guidance of his 


2o2 


ROSELIN 


dying father, no matter where that path might lead him. Hastily 
taking up his hat, he left the house and turned his footsteps 
toward the home of Mrs. Carrelton. There he found Marie 
alone. Extending her plump, white hand, sparkling with its 
many diamonds, and smiling coyly up at him, she explained in 
flattering tones : 

“Oh, Willard, Fm certainly delighted to see you, though I 
had supposed you too tired tonight to care about seeing me. 
And how are those darling sisters of yours? Exhausted from 
their journey though, Fm sure.^’ 

“Yes, quite, thank you,” he returned, barely touching the 
jeweled hand, which would willingly have lingered in his. Then 
seating himself he began abruptly: “I came to ask you a ques- 
tion, Marie — one single question — and, with your permission to 
ask it, I shall not long detain you.” 

Marie noticed his excitement and became slightly bewildered 
and the hot blood burned her cheeks but she arose, and going 
over to him, seated herself upon the davenport beside him. Lay- 
ing her hand on his arm with a sisterly freedom, she said : 

“I assure you, Willard, I shall gladly listen to anything you 
wish to ask me, and I shall help you, to the best of my ability.” 

“Thank you,” he replied, in a low voice, then paused. 

After all, should he ask her that all important question — the 
question which would destine all his future days — the question 
which would join, forever, his life with that of the girl for 
whom he had no love? What would that life hold for him? — 
gold, silver, luxuries and riches — ^but what were they, when the 
love, for which he pined, was denied him. Then the last mo- 
ments of his father’s life came up vividly before him and he 
turned abruptly to Marie: 

“I come asking you for yourself, Marie,” he said simply. 

“Oh, Willard ! that is so like you !” she exclaimed, leaning 
close to him; “the question I least expect to hear is always the 
one you ask.” 

“And what is your answer?” he broke in impatiently. 

“I can hardly believe your words, Willard. Are you really 
and truly sincere?” 

“I assure yon I am; I came purposely to ask you to be my 
Wife.” 


WILLARD’S PROMISE 


253 


This was not the ideal proposal, of which Marie Carrelton 
had often dreamed — for which she had long been hoping — he 
did not even say he loved her — but this was her opportunity to 
seize the prize for which she and her mother had long been 
striving, and she would not lose it now, so she only nestled 
quite close to his side and laying her cheek on his shoulder, 
with drooping lashes, whispered her reply. Then silently he 
bent and kissed the rosy lips. 

'‘Engaged ! — Engaged ! — actually engaged — and to Marie Car- 
relton, the last girl in Boston I should have chosen for my 
wife he exclaimed, as the door closed between him and his 
betrothed, and he rushed madly down the broad, stone steps. 
“Why was Genevieve not thus easily won? Why is my future 
to be so dark, so void, when it might have been bright and 
glorious, with Genevieve as my wife. But a life with Genevieve — 
how different from the one destined to be my future. Marie 
my wife — Horrors! What have I done! Yes! I have kept my 
promise, and had I waited longer, I fear I should have failed.’’ 

Days and weeks passed and Willard began more and more 
to mingle in society. Not that he enjoyed the gayeties of the 
social affairs he attended, but he was engaged to one of the 
most fashionable of society’s pets, and it was his duty to play 
the devoted to her; besides, it occupied his mind and kept him 
from dreaming and pondering over the future, which each day 
became more horrible to him. The wine-glass, too, which quite 
frequently touched his lips, during the weeks following his en- 
gagement, helped to drive from his mind the tender memories 
of Genevieve, as well as the thoughts of his wealthy fiancee, so 
distasteful to him. 

Lillian, with a dull pain in her heart, carefully noted every 
change in her brother’s face and manner and silently, earnestly, 
she prayed that the future, which looked so dark to him, might 
bring with it some ray of brightness. But she did not realize 
that he had disobeyed the lesson of temperance his father had 
taught him in early years— not entirely forgotten but wholly dis- 
regarded. Silently she listened to Marie as she talked happily 
of plans for the coming wedding, which was to be more grand, 
more beautiful, than Boston had ever before witnessed; then her 
eyes would go from Marie’s bright, glowing face, back to her 


254 


ROSELIN 


brother’s, who now and then, with feigned gayety, joined in the 
conversation, and she wondered what the future held in store 
for him. And when the first day of May came, bringing with 
it all the glories of spring — ^beautiful, warm and bright — she 
w^atched, with tear-dimmed eyes, as, with a cold, stern, expres- 
sionless face, he led his beautiful bride to the altar, and took 
upon himself the solemn vows of matrimony. 

They departed on an evening train for Florida, where they 
were to remain until the middle of June, when they would be 
at home, at Lakeview, for the remainder of the summer. The 
place was being wonderfully improved during their absence ; 
new rooms were added and others refurnished, so that when 
Willard and his bride arrived, there was nothing lacking about 
their home to make life beautiful. On all sides they were sur- 
rounded by luxuries which only wealth could afford. But Lil- 
lian, who had waited anxiously for their return, and who came 
with her sister to Lakeview the week following their arrival, 
found a far greater change in her brother. Carefully she 
watched his calm, sad face, as he sat listening to his wife’s gay 
conversation, and then she noticed the marks of dissipation she 
had failed to see two months before, but they had become more 
clearly defined, during the few short weeks of wedded life. 
But Marie — though she loved and admired her husband, lavish- 
ing upon him many caresses — apparently failed to notice the 
change which had come over him. He was hers now — she had 
won him at last, and with him, she had gained the wealth which 
had meant so much to her — for, after all, Willard Allington had 
wedded an almost penniless bride — his money alone had res- 
cued Lakeview from the mortgagee’s hands — had paid for every 
improvement — had saved Marie and her mother from suddenly 
dropping from society, and had given her everything for which 
she could wish — save a husband’s love — and now, both she and 
her mother looked blindly on as he started on the downward 
road to ruin. Wilma, too, intensely interested in her own af- 
fairs and happily contented in the presence of her much loved 
sister-in-law, did not seem to see the look of sorrow and dis- 
appointment which settled heavier and heavier upon her broth- 
er’s brow, and Lillian, alone, wept over the brother, for whom 
she had hoped a future far different. 


WlLLARD^S PROMISE 


255 


The girls knew nothing of Marie’s lost fortune, until one 
day when conversing with Willard, Wilma remarked upon the 
beauty of his wife, her many charms, her attractive manners 
and her immense fortune. He listened in silence, his expres- 
sion unchanged. 

“I wonder sometimes,” she continued, “if you realize what 
a valuable prize you have secured. Your wife, Willard, is 
one whom many a man would gladly claim, because of her 
personal charms alone, but her fortune, Willard — her fortune — 
I suppose one can hardly estimate her value as a wife, when 
that is considered.” 

“I assure you, Wilma, her fortune adds nothing to her 
value.” 

“To you, perhaps, no ! But to others — to one in Genevieve 
Layton’s circumstances — wealth is of more value than you may 
think.” 

“Marie’s wealth can matter little to anyone, Wilma; if she 
is to be valued by her wealth, she is worth little more than 
Genevieve herself.” 

“What are you saying, Willard; do you estimate Marie’s 
wealth at so low a price?” She looked searchingly at him. 

“She has her jewels; she has her gowns,” he replied, calmly 
scanning his sister’s face; “everything else is mine; for, Wilma, 
Marie Carrelton had very little she could call her own when 
she became my wife. My money saved the place in Boston; it 
saved Lakeview from public sale, and Mrs. Carrelton is as 
dependent upon me, for support, as you are upon the fortune 
our father left you.” 

“I can scarcely believe your words, Willard; Marie’s for- 
tune lost? — it seems impossible!” 

“But it is not impossible; I tell you it is lost. Only a few 
weeks before our wedding day, the last investment failed, and 
they were left penniless.” 

“Penniless — Willard — penniless! — and yet you married her? 
Wedded a penniless bride? Oh how dared you!” 

“Indeed, Wilma, do you think Marie fool enough to speak 
of her poverty to me, then? Do you think she would confide 
that secret to the man whose wealth was to save them? No I 


256 


ROSELIN 


it was not until after the ceremony which made her my wife 
that the secret of their circumstances was revealed to me.” 

“And then it was too late! She is cruel; she is false; 
she is wholly unworthy of the name she bears ! She has de- 
ceived you!” Wilma burst out in angry tones, but Willard’s 
firm, calm voice arose above hers. 

“Wilma, would you yourself have done otherwise? Would 
you have ventured to tell the truth, with the possibility of 
losing that for which you had long been striving, would you 
have revealed the truth, at the moment when wealth was most 
needed? No, no! you speak of my wife in terms which you 
yourself would not shrink to bear !” 

Wilma stood before him, looking at him with angry, flash- 
ing eyes. 

“But I am your sister, Willard Allington, and I can never 
again meet your wife on equal footing; for — though you refuse 
to acknowledge it — I am far her superior and, had 1 realized 
in time, to what level she had fallen, I should have saved you!” 

“Saved me; Wilma! — ^you, who have driven me to the life 
1 live! You could not have saved me! If she had told me 
truthfully of her poverty; if you had begged of me to break 
the promise I gave my father — I should have married her — she 
should have been my wife! Marie Allington is the same to 
me as if she now possessed every dollar of her father’s mil- 
lions” 

“Willard ! — how can you ! But you do not love her ! — you 
will never love her, and — though she is your wife — deep in 
your heart you almost hate her ! I know ! It was only papa’s 
will you obeyed, when you married her !” 

“I obeyed your will, as well as that of my father, when 
Marie Carrelton became my wife — but it was her fortune alone 
you wished me to wed, and now, when you know it is lost, 
you turn from her, you hate her — my wife, whom you have 
professed to love — and who, had it not been for you, would 
never have borne my name.” 

“You made me no promise ! Was it I who forced you to 
give up Genevieve Layton — to take Marie instead? No, Wil- 
lard, you cannot say it was !” 


WlLLARD^S PROMISE 


257 


“You used your every influence, Wilma; you cannot deny! 
But had Genevieve Layton given me the love, for which I 
once hoped, I would have died rather than to have given 
that promise — even to my dying father/’ 

“Willard ! do not be deceived ; Genevieve Layton loves you 
with her whole heart — has loved you always, and, I do not 
doubt, she loves you still.” 

It was in a moment of anger, of scorn for the penniless 
Marie, that the words slipped out, but a moment later, when 
Willard faced her with blazing eyes, she repented for having 
uttered them. 

“How do you know she loves me?” he demanded. 

“I have every reason to believe it, but to you I shall give 
none. Is it not enough to know that you are loved?” 

“Yes, it is enough! — it is maddening! — it is more than 
enough — now that it is, forever, too late !” 

“Too late — yes, it is too late ! — and you may as well con- 
tent yourself with Marie — your penniless wife.” 

She left him, and burying his face in his hands, moans of 
anguish shook his frame. 

After all did Genevieve love him? Were Wilma’s words 
to be considered? How many times had she deceived him? 
How many times had she proven herself false? But why 
should she tell him that he was loved, when — alas — she knew 
nothing; how should she know? Was not Genevieve’s letter — • 
her refusal to him — locked away with her painting in the 
studio — the spacious studio, which his money had added to 
the building at Lakeview? Of that, Wilma could know noth- 
ing, but if she knew — would she continue to declare that Gene- 
vieve loved him? Oh, no! in those few, cold, icy words 
there was nothing of love — only the sharp, piercing coldness of 
professed friendship, which had borne away his every hope. 
Wilma strove only to make his future darker, his life more 
bitter; she wished him to believe he had lost that which could 
have been easily gained — to deepen his hatred for his wife, 
whose wealth alone had made her friendship valuable, and — 
though it brought to his mind fresh memories of Genevieve, 
brought vividly before him the realities of the life he was 


17 


258 


ROSELIN 


living — it could not change the future. No annoying thoughts, 
however maddening, could make it darker — could make it more 
bitter, and, though his very soul trembled with undying love 
for Genevieve, he hoped for nothing — wished for nothing. He 
had become hardened to the life which lay before him, and 
lost in the solitude of the studio, where he spent the great- 
er part of his time at painting, he would dream of the past 
or of the future for which he had hoped, then look deep into 
the life — dark and empty — which stretched out before him, 
with expression unchanged. 


VALE COTTAGE 


259 


CHAPTER XL 

VALE COTTAGE 

The delicately mingled perfume of magnolias and arbutus 
pervaded the veranda, lawn and garden at Vale Cottage and 
floated with a refreshing sweetness among the trailing vines and 
gently swaying, flower-laden branches, which hid from view 
the hammock and its occupant. Her mother had been relating 
to her again the story of her early life, telling her of the 
sad, sweet memories of husband and son, who had been hers 
only those few, short, happy years, and which were still so 
dear to her; and as Grace watched the trim, dark figure dis- 
appear on the opposite side of the flowery wall, she dropped 
her embroidery and with eager, happy eyes, gazed after her. 
After all, was there not a ray of brightness gleaming out be- 
fore them in the future? Was there not a strange, bewildering 
happiness in store for them? — and when that time should come, 
would their love and joy ever cease to shine? — ^would it ever 
grow dim by the shadow of time? She leaned forward, her 
face glowing and flushed. Oh, how she longed to tell her 
mother of her joyous hopes; how she longed to whisper 
to her the secret, which, after all, might prove untrue. And 
if it did — the brightness of the future would vanish ; life 
would continue at Vale Cottage as it had during the year 
past — and how much longer, she did not ask — but it must be 
true; how could it be otherwise? How many hours she had 
spent puzzling over it, wondering if that joyful hour would 
ever come, and after each spell of pondering she would reach 
the same conclusion — it must be true. 

The mother, who never for a moment guessed that Grace 
held from her a secret, hidden deep in the heart, which had 
given the promise quite sacred to her, was again busy with her 
sewing in the little sitting-room ; and sinking back with her cheek 
pillowed on one hand, Grace held back the surrounding branches 
with the other, but the green and red of the crimson rambler 


260 


ROSELIN 


shaded the window, past which she was sure her mother’s chair 
was swaying. Her hand slipped from the magnolia branch and 
the big white petals shattered down from above. How beautiful, 
how fragrant they were; and slowly gathering them up she 
recalled, vividly, the days when, as a little girl, she had played 
about the rose-covered cottage, tripping along the garden paths, 
gathering up petals like these, and standing on tip-toe to reach 
the swaying blossoms. How much had passed since then. How 
much of sorrow and joy — and yet, how much like the old life 
was the life they were living — with the same sweet, peaceful 
freedom — nothing to mar the days of pleasure, save the mem- 
ories of the past. And that past — had it been less sad for her 
than for her mother during her early life? Had not the deep- 
est sorrow of her mother’s life overshadowed her own? But 
now, after the years of life at Roselin, filled mostly with bitter 
tears of sorrow, should she not forget the bitterness of the 
past and live only in the peaceful present, eagerly hoping for 
the brightness of the future? And with her embroidery for- 
gotten, she lay dreamily reviewing the days since last she looked 
upon Roselin. How sadly had her heart ached then, as in the 
darkness and sorrow of that hour of false accusation, she had 
stood looking up at the house, gleaming and white in the moon- 
light, and then slowly turned from the place which, for almost 
seven years, had been her home. Could she ever forget that 
hour ? How many memories Roselin held for her ! — how many 
sad hours had she spent there — the saddest of her life — but it 
also held memories, tender and loving, and sacred to her. How 
Roselin must have changed since then ! The doors were closed ; 
the servants were gone, and the place was silent; but the roses 
were blooming there — yellow, red, pink, and white — it must be 
Roselin still, but how different ! 

Things had changed for Genevieve, too — Genevieve who had 
comforted her sad, lonely heart in the early dawning of the 
day, when she had gone to Baltimore for her sympathy. Her 
mother had come to her there; and how gladly had she thrown 
herself into her loving arms and sobbed out a part of the 
story, whispering to her of the morning in the little sitting- 
room, when Llewellyn Greymore had given her the rubies, to 
keep until he should reveal to her a secret which fully justified 


VALE COTTAGE 


261 


him in presenting her with the gift. '‘He would be compelled 
to tell me his secret then, he said, if I persisted in refusing 
the necklace; and, mamma, could I have listened to a secret 
which he wished me not to know — which he promised to tell 
me when the proper time should come? How could I refuse 
Llewellyn Greymore what he asked? But you do not know 
Llewellyn — you have never seen him — or you would know how 
impossible it was for me to refuse,” she had explained; and as 
her mother kissed her flushed, tear-stained face, she had added: 
“and how I wish you could know him !” 

Her mother had asked for no other explanation; she was 
satisfied, for she knew that Grace had told her the truth — 
never had she doubted her, and she could not doubt her then — 
but she often wondered what Llewellyn’s secret could have 
been. Why had he not told Grace then? Why should he wait; 
why should he wish to give her a jewel so expensive? Was 
it only friendship which had prompted that act, or was it 
something deeper? Why had his engagement with Lillian been 
broken? Lillian had told her that Llewellyn was not to be 
hers. Had Grace quite unwittingly come between them; had 
she won his love; was that the secret he could not tell her? 
Yes, it must be so, she had decided over and over again. 

But Grace had heard the secret — heard it from Llewellyn’s 
lips — and though she had found it necessary to tell her mother 
the story of the rubies, she could not reveal to her that which 
she had so faithfully promised to keep to herself. She had 
told her mother all she herself had known at the time the 
necklace had been received, and yet she had kept her promise 
to Llewellyn. 

But even at Vale Cottage the feeling of that false accusa- 
tion had pressed heavily upon her; then the rubies had come 
from Lillian, and the load had been lifted. Never for a mo- 
ment had they considered returning to Roselin; Vale Cottage 
was far more dear. Here almost a year had passed, but the 
quiet peacefulness of the little home had seldom been broken. 

During the days when her mother had been at Roselin, at 
Mr. Allington’s bedside, she had been left alone with Delia; 
then the days had been long and dreary, but they had at 
last passed; her mother had returned, telling her of Lillian, 


262 


ROSELIN 


Wilma, Mrs. Carrelton and Marie, and of Willard’s promise. 
Almost three months had passed since Marie had become his 
wife and she wondered what his life was now. Now and 
then a letter came from Lillian, always addressed to her mother, 
but she told nothing of the life at Lakeview; letters came 
from Genevieve, in Baltimore, and from Donald Delmar, but 
never a word from Llewellyn. For a time, she had felt the 
pain of disappointment because he did not write ; but how 
should he know that she had left Roselin? How should he 
know of the trouble his precious gift had caused her? She 
had heard no word from him since that night when he had 
told her his secret. Quite suddenly had he left Roselin on 
the day following — and why? She could not tell. He had 
asked for her Ellen had said, but she had been unable to find 
her and Llewellyn had gone without her knowledge; gone from 
Roselin, leaving for her, only a hastily written note of good- 
bye. Was it the broken engagement which had sent him so 
hastily from Roselin? Why had she heard nothing of it during 
the weeks she had remained there? Why had Llewellyn not 
told her that Lillian was lost to him; but perhaps, after all, 
it was something else that had taken him back to Chicago. Her 
mother had not heard his name during her stay in Boston, and 
to Grace the cause of that broken engagement remained a 
mystery. But Llewellyn — when would he ever write ; when 
should she ever see him? 

Slowly she took up her embroidery, but her thoughts 
still lingered with Llewellyn, until a step sounded on the walk; 
the drooping magnolia branches parted; the glow of the sink- 
ing sun streamed across the hammock, and Grace started: 

“Dale !” she exclaimed, as the green and white branches 
closed behind Dale Clinton. “How you surprised me; I had not 
expected you this evening.’^ 

“I know you were not expecting me, but I thought perhaps 
you would not mind. I attempted to call you from New Or- 
leans, but I found it impossible as there was something wrong 
with the lines out this way. Pardon me, Grace, for taking 
this privilege.” 

Dale bowed exceedingly low before her as he finished his 
hurried explanation. 


VALE COTTAGE 


263 


“Oh! Not that I am sorry you came!’* she exclaimed, cor- 
dially. 

“Thank you, Miss Grace; but I fancy I interrupted a soli- 
tary reverie when I came so unceremoniously upon this pretty 
little scene.” 

“Yes, I was dreaming of our northern friends when the 
sound of your step awakened me,” she said, ignoring the com- 
pliment he had paid her. 

“‘Northern friends,’” he repeated. “Well! My thoughts 
were far remote from them; although I often recall the days of 
last summer’s house party. Of whose memory did your dream- 
ing mostly consist?” he laughingly continued. 

“Of Lillian; of Willard; of Llewellyn — of them all, in fact,” 
she returned. 

“Lillian; Willard; Llewellyn,” he slowly repeated, his brow 
clouding as he recalled the night when he had found Llewellyn ^ 
leaning against the marble mantel at Roselin, softly, almost in- 
audibly, breathing Grace’s name. His eyes looked straight into 
hers; “And had you no thought of me, Grace?” 

“I hardly associate you with memories of the past — mem- 
ories of Roselin — you are connected with more recent events.” 

“Then you dream of a past in which I have no place.” 

His eyes fell from her face to the magnolia petals in her 
lap. 

“You forget. Dale, that those of whom I dream have passed 
out of my life, while you — ^you are of the present.” 

“Yes, I understand; but do you expect them always to re- 
main out of your life?” His eyes came slowly back to her 
face. 

“I cannot say, I assure you ; I always hope to meet again with 
true friends; though sometimes our wishes are not fulfilled.” 

“True,” he returned; “but let me make a prophecy for the 
future; you will at least meet again with one of those friends 
of the past.” 

Grace looked wonderingly at him, a look of puzzled aston- 
ishment gleaming in the brown eyes. “Now that you have be- 
gun prophesying for the future, will you please continue?” 

She stretched her hand toward him, palm upward. “Tell 
me which one it will be/’ 


264 


ROSELIN 


He took her hand and, for a moment, gazed at it thought- 
fully; then his eyes, with their old mischievous, laughing ex- 
pression, went back to her face. 

“Really, Grace,” he exclaimed, “I am no fortune teller, 
consequently I think it wise to keep my prophecy to my- 
self.” 

“As you like,” said she, drawing her hand away; “I was 
becoming quite interested; I wish you would continue.” 

“I should gladly continue to hold your hand, if you would 
permit.” 

“Indeed, no!” Grace returned icily; and Dale could not re- 
frain from laughter. 

“I shall get down on my knees and ask for pardon, Grace, 
if you request it!” he exclaimed; and with a graceful toss of 
her head, a slight wave of her hand, she replied: 

“Oh, no, you need not trouble yourself ; that is quite un- 
necessary.” 

“Thank you; though seriously, Grace, I would do anything 
to gain your good opinion.” The expression of his face had 
changed; his black eyes looked straight into her face, and be- 
neath that earnest gaze, her own drooped and her cheeks grew 
scarlet. “But you know, better than myself, Grace, how utterly 
I fail,” he continued. 

She looked up quickly. 

“I cannot understand you today. Dale; has something gone 
wrong at the office; is Mr. Van Brunt gone for a second vaca- 
tion, that the Junior Mr, Clinton — usually so congenial — should 
be in such a mood?” 

“Oh, no — not that — it is really nothing, Grace,” he assured 
her, and again he assumed his old mischievous air. 

But deep in his heart, it was not, as Dale Clinton said, 
“really nothing”; it was the sudden and startling thought that 
Grace had been thinking, dreaming, of Llewellyn. Once he 
had found Llewellyn dreaming — unseen, unheard, he had slipped 
from the room — but the memory of that picture — of that whis- 
pered name — had lingered with him and, for a time, had 
crushed his greatest hope — the hope that Grace Wilton would, 
in time, be his. But if Llewellyn loved her — as he surely did — 
could there be the slightest hope of winning? No! No! Grace 


VALE COTTAGE 


265 


would be lost to him; for he felt that Llewellyn^s friendship 
was valued, while his — his love would be ignored. Then 
Llewellyn had gone back to Chicago and Dale to his southern 
home. He had scarcely seen Grace during the latter part of 
his stay; and during the days and weeks which had followed, 
he had wondered how much Grace knew of his real feelings — 
how much she knew of Llewellyn’s love. But no word had 
come from the north, no word from Willard, until the letter 
which had told him that Grace and her mother were at Vale 
Cottage, in AVestern Springs, only a few miles from New Or- 
leans; then his surprise, his pleasure, had been unequaled, and 
during his frequent visits at the cottage, he had almost for- 
gotten that another had ever loved Grace Wilton. 

He was always cordially welcomed by Mrs. Allington, who 
from the first had considered him a true friend. In early years 
she had been personally acquainted with both his father and 
mother, and during the months which had passed, she had be- 
come warmly attached to Dale. With Grace it was different. 
Though she always gladly welcomed him — though she seemed, 
always, happily contented, she gave him only a firm, true 
friendship, and if she felt for him anything deeper than a 
real liking, it was carefully hidden and neither her mother nor 
Dale could detect it. But Dale was satisfied — satisfied to be 
her friend. ^‘Friendship like hers has often turned to love,” 
he would repeat to himself ; but now, when he found her 
dreaming of Llewellyn — Llewellyn whose name was seldom 
mentioned between them — all was changed, and again it seemed 
that Grace was lost — lost to him and gained for Llewellyn. 


266 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XLI 

CHESTER COLLINS’ LOVE 

For a time we will leave Vale Cottage and go back to the 
north — back to Baltimore — where Genevieve spent day after 
day at the office, where gladly, happily, diligently, she had 
worked for over four long years. Long years had they been? 
As she looked back to the day when first she had stood on the 
steps at the Moreland Place, when first she had entered the 
University, bent on gaining the knowledge for which she longed, 
it seemed but a day since she had first entered that office; 
yet how much had passed since then; how many changes had 
taken place all around her. Yes, she herself had changed — 
changed from a bright young school-girl of nineteen years, 
just entering college, to a woman of twenty-four — a business 
woman, with only a business life before her. Once, she be- 
lieved she had been loved — how long ago that was ! Four 
years since then? — ah, no; only a year had passed since Wil- 
lard loved her. He had loved again and wedded since then, 
while she — her heart melted by its first love, no other love 
could mold it. She had loved and lost. 

Genevieve Layton did not pine long over that which she 
knew was lost ; she forgot the lost amid thoughts of what 
might be gained. She did not surrender her every hope for 
the future; though her life was changed, the future was still 
bright. For what had she been striving? Had not her su- 
preme hope been to gain the education which would put her 
in her rightful place in the business world? Was not that the 
thing for which she had been working? — for which she had 
always hoped? For only a short time it had seemed her life 
had swerved into a new channel — that was when she had first 
learned that she loved and was loved. Then suddenly she 
found the same path leading out before her — the path over 
which she had so often, in imaginary dreamings, traversed — 
and now, why should it be less brilliant than she had at first 


CHESTER COLLINS’ LOVE 


267 


hoped? Was it not what she had planned for herself before 
she had thought of love? Why should her life be changed? 
Why should she be so selfish? If Willard loved — truly and 
devotedly loved another — could she wish for his life to be 
changed that hers might be made brighter? No; that greater 
brightness — the brightness and ardor of love were for Willard, 
for Marie; they were not to be hers. Willard had loved 
Marie and now she was his wife — his wife — how wildly Gene- 
vieve’s heart throbbed as she repeated : ‘‘Marie Carrelton — Marie 
Allington — Willard’s wife — Willard’s wife, and he loves her — 
yes he loves her and I am forgotten;” and, alone in the office, 
her head sank down upon the desk and almost instantly tears 
hung tremblingly on her lashes. The moment before, she would 
have tossed her head indignantly, dashed them from her eyes 
and turned resolutely to her work, but now one after another 
they dropped upon her folded arms and vivid memories crowded 
her brain. 

One year since she had seen him; one year since she had 
heard his voice, but his loving tones, his tender accents, seemed 
to sound again in the silence. He had not loved Marie then ; 
no, he had not loved Marie. But guilt — false accused guilt — had 
fallen upon her since then, had come between her and Wil- 
lard’s love — ^yes, Wilma’s rubies had come between them — had 
separated them forever. But how tenderly, how earnestly he 
had said, “Yes, Genevieve, I do believe you innocent;” but 
his love had failed — yes, his love had failed — regardless of 
those words. He had added, “I must go now but I shall s*ee 
you later;” but she had gone — gone back to Baltimore and he 
had not seen her. No word had come from him since then ; 
she had been proven innocent — the guilt transferred to another 
equally as innocent as herself — but still no word had come from 
Willard. For a time she had forgotten her own sorrows while 
she comforted Grace. Grace could tell her little of Willard; 
little of Lillian; little of anything save her own sad life, but 
Genevieve’s understanding had been perfect and she had listened 
and soothed to the best of her ability, wondering upon whom 
the guilt would at last fall. Then months had passed, with 
letters coming frequently from Lillian — first from Roselin, from 
the seashore and then from Boston. The letters from Roselin 


368 


ROSELIN 


told that Willard had gone west and of her own failing 
health; from the seashore came the news of Willard’s return, 
with little bits of teasing phrases directed toward Genevieve 
and her brother. These had pleased and puzzled Genevieve; 
then came the letter from Wilma. Willard had loved another 
and wished to be free from the weak, trivial bonds which 
had bound them. Yes, how trivial were those bonds. Yet 
Willard had shrunk from asking that which his sister had 
asked for him. It was only a slender thread to be broken and 
she had broken it in order that his wedded life might be happy. 
The past had seemed but a faded dream, the future a vague 
reality. 

But Willard had made no reply to her letter — the letter 
over which she had pondered for days and weeks, wondering 
what her words should be — wondering if Wilma had written 
truthfully, and trying, with sheer resolutions, to crush her 
emotions — the emotions which struggled to rule supremely. That 
they should not rule she had been determined and at last she 
had conquered — conquered her heart, her love, and she had 
written that note — short and cold — but she could truthfully as- 
sure him that she was only his friend. ‘‘Only a friend,” she 
had repeated; for his dear sake, I shall be only a friend 

and God will help me.” Then she had sent back the picture 
he had painted for her. How much that picture had been to 
her she did not know until after she realized that she’ must 
part with it. It had not only pictured to her that which had 
been lost during school days but that which might be gained 
in the future ; but now all was lost and with tear-dimmed 
eyes she had watched, as it was carried from the room — the 
room left desolate without it. 

Lillian’s letters still came — came to lighten her burdens, to 
comfort and soothe her — but they did not contain the items of 
news which she most desired; the one most dear to her, was 
never mentioned. They told of the past, the present and the 
future, but it seemed that Willard had died with his father; 
his name was never penned, and save for the one sentence, 
“I am visiting at Lakeview with my brother,” Lillian’s letters 
would have communicated nothing, so far as Willard was 
concerned. Over and over again Genevieve had read those 


CHESTER COLLINS^ LOVE 


269 


letters and she wondered if dear little Lillian had guessed the 
secret of her heart and had refrained from mentioning her 
brother’s name rather than add another pain to the already ach- 
ing heart of her friend. She had thought that no one knew; 
that no one could guess; but after all Lillian must understand. 
But, alas, Genevieve was mistaken. There was nothing more 
remote from Lillian’s mind. She did not think that Genevieve 
loved her brother. To her he was a rejected lover — rejected, 
for what reason she did not know, nor would her pride permit 
her to ask. She could not be inquisitive, nor could she men- 
tion her brother’s name to the girl who had refused him and 
who wrote nothing, asked nothing, about him. Had Genevieve 
known as much as Lillian knew of Willard’s life, her heart 
would have broken ; but she did not know — she could not 
guess — nor did she once suspect Wilma. She had not been 
intimately enough connected with Wilma Allington’s daily life 
to understand the unscrupulous nature which lay beneath the 
cold outward sharpness. But Lillian was as ignorant of the 
real facts — as much deceived — as was Genevieve herself. Wilma 
alone knew who had won the victory. She had guided her 
brother’s steps in the way she had wished them to go. But 
after all a part of the victory was lost, for Marie had been a 
penniless bride. 

That Wilma influenced Willard, Genevieve knew; she knew 
too that she would not shrink from deceit, but that she would 
undertake a plan so great — that she would so greatly sin — 
Genevieve did not suspect, and she did not doubt but that 
Willard’s wife was loved. 

“It is wrong — it is wrong — to wish for that which rightfully 
belongs to Marie. I have no right to her husband’s love — no 
right to a place in his thoughts ; I am wholly a business woman — 
nothing but a business woman. That is my destined future 
and I must be content!” she exclaimed at last, shaking off the 
thoughts of the past and resuming her work. 

This was not the first battle Genevieve had fought and 
won in her own heart, and ere Mr. Carlson and Mr. Collins 
returned, the smiles were again playing about her mouth, and 
her eyes were sparkling and bright. Unobserved, except by the 
older man, Chester Collins stood looking at her. Her head. 


270 


ROSELIN 


bent gracefully, rested on her hand, her elbow on the desk, 
and the white, tailored cuff had slipped back, showing her 
wrist, round and white; her fingers threaded the glossy brown 
hair, and her brain was pondering over the words beneath her 
pen. She knew that Mr. Collins stood near her — a step seldom 
sounded in the office that Genevieve did not hear — but she 
had no thought of him. Her mind was bent upon her work. 
She was wholly a business woman — how sweet, how pure, how 
beautiful, and how different from many of the business women 
of the world. 

“As unfitted to the life she lives as a tropical plant to the 
sharp, bleak winds of the north,’’ Chester Collins thought, and 
turned slowly to his desk — not to study and work, but to dream 
of Genevieve, who sat at the desk opposite. 

Mr. Carlson leaned back in his chair, looked over the top 
of his paper and glanced from one to the other. Chester’s 
whole attitude was changed; the firm, resolute air of business 
had vanished and he gazed vacantly into space. Was this the 
same man who had entered the office with him only half an 
hour before? — alive to the slightest incident connected with the 
firm? But Mr. Carlson understood his mood perfectly; he un- 
derstood the look of passionate tenderness he had bent upon 
Genevieve, and again he turned to look at her. She had com- 
pleted her work and instantly her eyes met his. 

“Is there any other business you wish me to attend to 
now, Mr. Carlson?” she asked, in a strictly business-like tone, 
and though his manner puzzled her, she looked him squarely in 
the face as his eyes were raised from the paper, to which 
they had fallen. 

After a moment’s thought he replied in the negative, and 
she was about to continue, when Chester Collins turned about 
in his chair and faced them. 

“Have you any arrangements for vacation. Miss Layton ; 
have you spoken to Mr. Carlson on the subject?” He leaned 
his head carelessly back on his hands and looked at her. 

“No sir, I have not; but that was the subject on which I 
was only hesitating to speak. I dislike asking for a vacation 
at a time when I am needed here, but if you think this a suit- 
able time, I should prefer taking my vacation next week — I 
feel that I need the rest,” she added. 


CHESTER COLLINS^ LOVE 


271 


“Yes, yes; you must have a vacation — no doubt about that — 
I had almost forgotten that we have kept you continually en- 
gaged all summer long, when you should have had a vacation 
weeks ago — weeks ago ! and here you are, still working,” Mr. 
Carlson said, thoughtfully. “You are faithful. Miss Genevieve — 
more faithful than any of our employes before you. Certainly; 
take your vacation any time you wish, aye, Chester?” 

“That is exactly what I was going to suggest, Mr. Carlson, 
and as Miss Genevieve has so patiently given up the summer 
vacation and waited until so late, I think we may trust to her 
judgment as to the length of her vacation — providing, of course, 
that she be reasonable.” Chester Collins smiled. 

“Yes, yes, take as long as you like. Miss Genevieve. I agree 
with you — ^you need the rest — and you are deserving of more 
than we give you.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Carlson; thank you, Mr. Collins; it is kind 
of you indeed to give me so much freedom. No one could 
appreciate it more than I do.” 

Her eyes were sparkling, her face glowing, when she left 
the office, after making all the necessary preparations for her 
absence. Quite by accident, it seemed, Chester Collins was leav- 
ing at the same time and for a moment they stood together 
on the office steps ; then she turned toward the Moreland 
Place, and much to her surprise, Mr. Collins walked beside her. 
He seemed lost in thought and she did not disturb him. 

“Pm going to make a suggestion, Miss Genevieve,” he said 
at last. “Tetrazzini sings tonight; I have tickets for the con- 
cert and I am at your service. Would you not like to hear 
her?” 

“Tetrazzini !” she exclaimed. “Yes, I should like to hear 
her !” Mr. Collins’ face brightened for a moment, but she con- 
tinued : “I can hardly think of going, Mr. Collins ; as it is, I 
must make hurried preparations for my journey home.” 

He interrupted her : 

“You refuse me all these little things I would do for you,” 
he said, impatiently. “Miss Genevieve, you will accept nothing 
from me; ’tis a wonder you do not refuse your vacation, see- 
ing that it came from my suggestion.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Collins, I trust you do not think that I fail 


272 


ROSELIN 


to appreciate your thoughtful kindness; forgive me if I seem 
ungrateful/’ 

''No, it is not that you are ungrateful. If you were less 
grateful you would refuse nothing; as it is you refuse every- 
thing — accept nothing.” His voice was low; his words came 
slowly. Genevieve looked wondering up at him; his face was 
stern and drawn and the deep lines of a frown showed plainly 
on his brow. She had never seen him look like this and 
instantly she was sorry for her decision, but she made no 
reply until they reached the Moreland Place. 

"Are you fully resolved not to hear Tetrazzini tonight?” he 
asked. 

"I should be sorry to refuse; perhaps I can manage it. Yes, 

I will go,” said she. 

An hour later she was busy about her room, forgetful of 
her toilet when the maid came to her door and handed her a 
small package. "A gentleman brought it for Miss Layton,” 
she remarked. 

It was a violet box, tied securely with violet ribbon, and 
as the wrapper fell from it, the fragrant perfume of violets 
came from within. Excitedly she lifted the lid and there lay 
a beautiful bunch of the purple flowers, dainty, fragrant, and 
fresh. She took them in her hand and held them up before 
her, uttering a joyful exclamation of surprise. 

"From Mr. Collins, I am sure!” she exclaimed. "It is 
lovely of him to think of it! Flowers to wear to the con- 
cert!” Her expression changed; she laid the violets back in 
their box. "I doubt if I should have allowed him the privilege, 
myself the pleasure, of going tonight.” 

This was not the first time flowers had come from Mr. ; 
Collins, but never before had they been violets; never before ' 
had they been intended for her to wear, and with a strange j 
feeling of resentment, she arranged her toilet; and as she stood 
before the mirror she whispered softly to herself : 

"Yes, I shall wear violets tonight, when I hear Tetrazzini. \ 
Willard always loved them, and I’ve heard him speak of j 
Tetrazzini; yes he always loved the little purple violets.” , 

The auditorium was almost filled when Genevieve and Mr. | 
Collins entered the theater and followed the usher to their ,! 


CHESTER COLLINS^ LOVE 


273 


places. The orchestra was playing and the mingled murmur 
of voices sounded unceasingly. Genevieve sat looking about 
her, idly straightening a crumpled leaf of the violets which 
lay against the soft, snowy whiteness of her gown. Her 
light cloak was thrown back, her chin slightly elevated, her 
eyes carelessly wandering from one box to another. Many 
of them were as yet unoccupied and she turned again to her 
escort. 

“My violets are beautiful, Mr. Collins; how thoughtful and 
kind of you to send them.” 

Her tone was unchanged; it still contained the air of busi- 
ness, which she always used when speaking to either of her 
employers. Although Chester Collins was her escort, her friend 
and — as he had often times acknowledged to himself — her 
lover, her voice continually reminded him that their compan- 
ionship, their friendship, was that of employer and employe. 

“You like violets then. Miss Genevieve? I was at a loss to 
know what to send, for I have never known your favorite 
flower.” 

“I’m glad you sent violets; I love them,” she said, and her 
voice was suddenly changed; soft, sweet and thrilling it was. 
Mr. Collins did not understand. 

As he had finished speaking, a party had entered one of 
the boxes at the right. Genevieve had observed them; a gentle- 
man and two ladies — one middle-aged, clad in a gown glitter- 
ing with jewels; the other, short, plump, fair-haired and young, 
wearing a cloak of glimmering satin. The man’s back was to- 
ward Genevieve, but he was tall, his hair was black. He stooped, 
placed the cloak he carried over the back of a chair and turned 
to his wife — yes, his wife. He bent over her — lovingly, it 
seemed to Genevieve — assisted her to remove her cloak, and 
gently drew a spangled scarf about her shoulders — it was a cool 
evening near the middle of September — the pale lavender bodice 
was cut low and a sparkling necklace of diamonds interlaced 
with satiny pearls lay against the smooth, white throat. The 
man drew his chair quite close to hers and leaned forward. 

From her place in the auditorium, almost on a level with the 
box, Genevieve could see his face distinctly. She could hardly 
recognize it to be Willard Allington’s — the one which leaned 


18 


274 


ROSELIN 


over the golden balustrade viewing the sea of people below 
him — it was changed; yes, it was changed. The first glimpse she 
had caught of his stately form, in the box, she had recognized 
him, but now, she almost doubted; then his eyes almost met 
hers; her face flushed; her lip trembled and her eyes drooped. 
Yes, it was Willard Allington, but his searching eyes had wan- 
dered past her; she had not been observed. 

She did not dare to look in that direction now, and she 
sat silently, until the first notes of Tetrazzini’s voice floated 
out over the now breathless audience. They fell upon her 
ears as upon one in a dream and brought her back abruptly to 
her surroundings. Chester Collins was at her side, listening 
intently to the superb voice of the singer. 

Willard did not seem to hear the wonderful voice, the 
soft, sweet strains of the orchestra. His eyes were now fastened 
upon Genevieve with an eager, hungering expression which 
brought a glow, bright as a crimson geranium, to her cheeks and 
brow as she met it, but she looked at him long and earnestly. 
Neither wavered; they seemed to look deep into the very heart 
of the other. Willard leaned slightly forward — his face paled — 
his dark eyes were as sharp and glittering as polished steel — then 
with a quick breath, he turned away. He turned to Marie, with 
a sudden movement so like Wilma that a slight shudder ran 
over Genevieve; and the look he bent upon his wife seemed, 
at that distance, one of loving tenderness; his every attitude 
toward Marie seemed, to Genevieve, a silent caress, and sadly 
her eyes fell to the stage, and in another moment she was lost 
in rapt attention, as were all those about her. 

She did not look again toward the box where Willard sat; 
but his chair was drawn a little back now, so he was observed 
by neither Marie nor her mother, and the former little dreamed 
that, all during the concert, her husband sat like a statue, gaz- 
ing upon the hated face of Genevieve Layton, with a look so 
tender, so loving, so sad, that, had she seen it, it would have 
sent a bitter pang of jealousy to her heart. 

The curtain went down for the last time; the concert was 
over; Mr. Collins turned to Genevieve. For some time he had 
been watching her. Her face, now calm, was bright and smil- 
ing ; again she had fought the battle in her heart — though 


CHESTER COLLINS^ LOVE 


275 


neither of the men watching her had suspected it — again she 
had won. 

Following her quick, careless glance, his eyes fell upon Wil- 
lard and his companions. 

‘‘Upon my word ! there’s Allington and his wife !” 

“Yes,” was the careless reply, and her face showed no 
emotion. 

“It is long since they were in Baltimore.” 

“Not since the week of my graduation, I believe; Willard 
was here then, you remember.” 

“Yes; I remember every incident connected with that com- 
mencement;” he hesitated. Genevieve did not reply, and he 
went on : “Willard has always been a good friend of mine — 
yours as well. Miss Genevieve — and, I do not doubt, will come 
to the office before they return home. I’m sorry you will not 
be there, for I’m sure his wife will expect to see you. I wish 
we could have caught Willard’s eye and we should have seen 
them tonight.” 

“Yes,” Genevieve replied unhesitatingly, but she was glad for 
the covering darkness which hid her face from the view of her 
companion. 

“They came purposely to hear Tetrazzini, I presume,” said 
she; then adroitly she changed the subject and began talking 
of Tetrazzini and her wonderful voice. 

As Genevieve had said they came purposely to hear Tetraz- 
zini, but above the desire to hear Tetrazzini was the longing 
desire to see Genevieve’s face once more. Had it not been for 
the frail hope of seeing her there, Willard would never have 
so readily consented to making the trip to Baltimore. Just one 
glimpse of her face, he felt, would tell him something of her 
life, and it did. She was with Chester Collins — if not her hus- 
and, her accepted lover at least, he thought — but in that instant 
when their eyes had met he felt that Wilma was not mistaken 
when she said Genevieve loved him. What was it that called 
that brilliant color to her cheeks? Was it love? — was it shame? — 
was it hatred? Her eyes seemed to send the former message; 
and there were the violets ! That innocent cluster of purple 
seemed to say she loved him. A sudden thrill of something 
akin to gladness ran to his very finger tips; her gaze did not 


276 


ROSELIN 


waver ; he turned away, and when next he looked at her, 
she seemed to have forgotten his very existence. 

But he was not forgotten. Even when they reached the 
Moreland Place and stood on the stone steps — the full moon 
rising over the treetops, making lawn and veranda bright as 
day — Willard was not forgotten. The words Chester Collins 
murmured only brought his memory nearer — made it dearer. 

‘‘Genevieve, I have waited long and I am now decided to 
confide to you my dearest hope and secret,” he began; “though 
I doubt if, to you, it is a secret. I must tell you, Genevieve, 
how dear you are to me — how much your presence in the office 
has been to me — and how I love you! I have always loved 
you, shall always love you; and tell me, Genevieve, that when 
you go to your home on the morrow, you will go as my promised 
wife. Say you will, Genevieve, and I shall be happy.” 

While he was speaking slowly, passionately, she stood as one 
petrified, her eyes riveted on his face — she did not move, and as 
he finished, he clasped her hands and drew her gently to him. 
She had no power to resist. 

“Can you not learn to love me, Genevieve? Give me at least 
your promise; give me the privilege to continue loving you 
and I shall ask nothing in return. Four years I have loved 
and waited, and now say you will be mine,” he pleaded. 

She looked up at him with a pitying gaze and drew herself 
from his loving embrace. “My dear Mr. Collins, I am sorry — 
so sorry you love me.” 

Her eyes were shining with unshed tears. He longed to 
take her again in his arms but he dared not; his arms fell at 
his side. 

“You wish I did not love you,” he said sadly; “then you 
mean that you cannot be mine? Oh, Genevieve, is that what 
you wish me to understand?” 

“I mean that I am sorry that I ever came to Baltimore, Mr. 
Collins; sorry to give you cause for pain, but I cannot give 
you the promise you ask; my heart is not mine to give; oh, 
how I wish it were! My promise, Mr. Collins, could never 
make you happy; my heart is lost to another and the broken 
remnants of love will never give happiness to a man like you — 
you deserve something more.” 


CHESTER COLLINS^ LOVE 


m 


“But, Genevieve, I love you ; I cannot be happy without 
you — I will make you forget you have ever loved — I will give 
you everything love and money can give. Come to me, Gene- 
vieve, and make me happy.’’ 

“No, Mr. Collins,” she said firmly, “I can never make you 
happy; I can never be yours. I should do you wrong — do 
wrong to myself. I have told you the secret of my heart that 
you may be convinced; but I trust you, Mr. Collins, as I trust 
no other, save Mr. Carlson.” 

“Then I must believe that I have no hope?” 

“No hope,” she murmured; “no hope. I cannot come back 
to the office, Mr. Collins; I should only pain you by my con- 
tinual presence there. We must part, Mr. Collins, but please let 
us part as friends.” 

He had turned as if to leave her but at her last words he 
turned back and clasped the hand outstretched to him. 

“Yes, we will part as friends, Genevieve. I would give 
back your lost love if it were possible; I would make you 
happy if it were in my power, for believe me, Genevieve, I 
shall love you always.” 

“Forget me, Mr. Collins; for your own sake forget me,” 
she advised; then briefly thanking him for the kindness of the 
past, she watched him depart, ran to her room and sank down 
upon the bed. 

Long ago she had guessed Chester Collins’ secret, but she 
had scarcely thought of it going thus far — she felt bewildered — 
she felt paralyzed — but she felt that she had done right. She 
had left the office never again to return. Her vacation was 
to be longer than she had imagined. She had suddenly dropped 
from the business world; love, position — everything was lost — 
the world seemed to be slipping from beneath her grasp — the 
room seemed to be swaying — she felt that she was fainting, 
and springing to the window she threw it open and leaned 
out. Memories of home rushed to her confused brain and all 
other thoughts fled. She was going home, and there was so 
much to be done, for she would not return — she was going 
from Baltimore, and before the first light of day crept over 
the city she had fallen asleep, with mingled dreams of Chester 
Collins, Willard and home. 


278 


ROSELIN 


The slanting rays of the sun streamed from the west when 
Genevieve reached the little brown cottage; she paused and 
looked at it — it was white now and the newly painted shutters 
were opened, gleaming green against the white — then suddenly 
the door opened and she threw herself into her mother’s arms. 
This was home; this was comfort and rest. 

At sunset she walked alone to Roselin. She looked at the 
unkept lawn and garden, the last of the summer’s withered 
roses, the closely curtained windows, and with awe she listened, 
but the silence was unbroken. Everything was desolate and 
lonely and she turned away wondering if she were not, after 
all, happier than the family who had left Roselin thus desolate. 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


279 


CHAPTER XLII 

V 

WILLARD AND MARIE 

Matters had grown steadily worse at Lakeview, and while 
the autumn days were still warm and bright, the surrounding 
slopes still green as in the months of summer, Marie had 

grown tired of her quiet country home — tired of her husband’s 

silent, dreamy moods and careless, distant manner — tired of 
the loneliness. The whole life had become irksome to her, 
and she longed for the society of Boston. At Lakeview, Wil- 
lard’s money lay idle and useless ; in Boston it would give 
them what money alone could give — a place of honor amid 
the whirl of society, and that was what she most longed for. 
She had learned by daily association with him that her hus- 
band did not love her, nor had Wilma attempted to conceal 
that fact from her during the last days of her visit at Lake- 
view. She was surprised that the knowledge gave her so little 

pain. She had loved Willard — loved him for himself and for 

the sake of his wealth and position — she thought she loved 
him still, but so long as he was hers, and she could share his 
fortune and name, other things mattered little to her; so once 
more settled in Boston, occupying her former place in society, 
she did not ask for even a husband’s love to make her happy. 

Gayly she danced and mercilessly she flirted. To Willard 
this was a new phase of Marie’s character and it puzzled and 
annoyed him. The girl he had married was as far from being 
a coquette as any he had ever known. Marie Carrelton had 
never been the flirt Marie Allington — his wife — was fast proving 
herself to be. But it was because she hoped to gain favor in his 
opinion that she had refrained; now that he was her husband 
and she found none save her mother’s love at home, there was 
no longer a reason for retaining the distant, dignified manner 
she had hitherto assumed toward the other men of her circle. 

All through his life the word coquette had held for Wil- 


280 


ROSELIN 


lard a certain horror, and now his wife had lost the only thing 
for which he could admire her. The society world was bow- 
ing at her feet but her husband stood aloof. He shuddered as 
he watched her dancing, singing, playing, babbling to those 
about her. He never felt a thrill of pride except when he 
heard someone say: “She is beautiful;’^ then on rare occasions, 
he felt a faint gleam of pride in saying: “She is my wife;** 
for, indeed, Marie Allington was beautiful in the silks and 
jewels with which her husband*s money arrayed her. 

Yes, she was his wife; she bore his name, and as he watched 
group after group of her admirers gather around her — saw the 
caressing, approving smiles her mother cast upon her — a feeling 
of horror seemed clutching at his heart and passionately he 
turned to the wine glass, sparkling and red. There he sought 
comfort — there he found it — and while his wife rushed madly 
on with the tide of society, he sank lower and lower in sin. 
No invitations were refused now, and night after night was 
spent at the clubs and the houses where the young men of 
society met alone. There was no restraint there, and he 
rapidly fell into the ways of his companions. Drink had a 
strange, though powerful effect upon him. When under its 
influence the memory of Genevieve rarely came to him; Marie, 
unless in his presence, was forgotten, and life became a pleasure. 
He appeared more like his former self. Without wine and 
champagne he could not paint ; without them he could do nothing 
worth doing; without them he could scarcely be civil to his 
wife. Horror and disgust seemed to fill his very soul as he 
watched Marie and her train of admirers; the world seemed to 
him only an emblem of deceit and himself the most miserable of 
men. 

Deceiving as others strove to deceive, Willard Allington had 
not yet lost the respect of those around him. They scarcely 
paused to realize the cause of his changed manner, but to the 
greater part of society he was more attractive, his manner 
more pleasing than during the previous winter, when as the 
escort of his fiancee — ^the wealthy Marie Carrelton — he had 
been silent, distant and dignified; and many remarked as they 
looked from one to the other: “What a grand match it is — Mrs. 
Allington so beautiful and he so handsome and attractive. They 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


281 


are well suited to each other; and no other than Willard Ailing- 
ton would willingly stand by and hear and see his wife thus 
flattered by other gentlemen; he seems to care little. It is 
well that she has him for her husband, for nothing is so fas- 
cinating to Marie as the life she is living.” 

Both Wilma and Lillian were visiting an aunt in a distant 
city and, happily for them, knew nothing of their brother’s life 
in society. Often he longed for Lillian; he sometimes felt 
that he could tell her everything and ask her to help him; 
then again he felt that he would shrink before her pure, in- 
nocent face and clear, scrutinizing gaze. He would need to 
tell her nothing; she would guess it all. 

Alone in the studio, when free from the influence of wine, 
he would often pace up and down the room for hours at a 
time or sit gazing at the painting he had made of Genevieve 
years before. The picture Genevieve had returned hung behind 
a heavy curtain and he seldom looked at it. The door of the 
studio was always locked and Marie had never entered it — 
never looked upon that painting. Her time was taken up ex- 
clusively by society; she had little thought of her husband and 
his work. 

Thus the winter passed and the first days of spring came. 

One morning Willard, clad in his riding clothes, went to the 
studio for his whip, leaving the door slightly ajar, and turning 
about, he faced Marie. 

'T saw you were ready for your ride, dear,” she said un- 
hesitatingly; “and I came to ask if you will go with me to the 
McGregor dinner tonight; it is necessary for you to tell me 
now.” 

She glanced about the room as she spoke — Genevieve’s pic- 
ture lay, face downward, on the table. 

“Yes, yes, I will go,” he answered impatiently, and holding 
open the door, motioned her to pass. 

“I think I shall stay here,” she said softly, sweetly, and not- 
ing his look of annoyance, she continued : “you see, Willard, it 
has been so long since I saw your paintings and I’m determined 
to take the time now. I have been so occupied during the 
months past; I know you can forgive me.” 

Willard could easily have forgiven her for neglecting his 


282 


ROSELIN 


studio and paintings in the past, had she been less determined 
now. He hesitated : 

“Come, Marie,” he said; “my horse is ready and waiting; 
I will show you the paintings when neither of us have an 
engagement; I must be ofif now.” 

“Oh, indeed ! I shall not detain you ; go on for your ride !” 
she exclaimed. “I assure you, I shall be perfectly contented 
here. You are so thoroughly satisfied when left alone here, I 
can certainly entertain myself for a few short hours.” She looked 
piercingly at him and her voice assumed an accent of scorn; 
he moved uneasily; then she turned and glanced along the row 
of paintings hung along the wall. “Which is the most interest- 
ing of your pictures, Willard? Tell me before you go,” she 
said gayly. 

Willard had no intention of going now, and sitting down 
in the nearest chair, striking his riding whip sharply across 
his boot he replied : 

“Every one’s opinion does not correspond with that of the 
artist; I dare say that the painting which interests me would 
be of no interest whatever to you.” 

Quickly she turned to him : “And tell me, please, which of 
them is your favorite? I shall attempt to be interested in it, 
dear.” 

Again there was a touch of scorn in her tone and the last 
word sank deep. Willard was fast losing his temper. He 
arose : 

“I’ll tell you, Marie,” he said firmly, “if you have the least 
respect for my opinion you will come with me at once and 
leave the pictures for some other time; I tell you I must go.” 

“Go!” she exclaimed. “I have never before attempted to 
enter this room — you have not wished it — you need not strive 
to deceive me, Willard — you do not wish to trust me here — your 
paintings are far too precious for your wife to gaze upon, with- 
out the artist by her side — you may stay or you may go, as 
you like, dear — I am here — here I shall stay.” 

He stood dumbly staring at her. 

“Oh, you need not be so surprised !” she exclaimed. 

“Indeed, Marie, you have never before evinced so great an 
interest in my studio ; you have scarcely mentioned it ; why 
should you so suddenly become determined to take an interest?” 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


283 


‘‘Are you not glad to have your wife interested in your 
work?’" 

“Ah, Marie, interested in society!’^ he exclaimed. “It is not 
a year since we went to Lakeview — when I painted your picture, 
then you were interested, but now — now — what has possessed 
you he demanded. 

She did not dare to say that she had given up the club 
the afternoon before to watch the door of the studio. Every 
time she had tried it she had found it locked — only the morn- 
ing before, she had asked Willard’s valet for the key and he 
had refused it — refused it! — but she was determined to enter 
the studio when she was not expected, and she had succeeded 
far more easily than she had anticipated. While he was 
speaking she leaned her elbow on the table and moved several 
of the sketches, and as he finished, her fingers touched Gene- 
vieve’s painting. Willard did not move — he stood watching 
her as she slowly turned it over and her eyes met those of 
Genevieve Layton — the girl who had been her rival — the girl 
whom her husband loved. 

“There, Willard, I know your secret !” she exclaimed, her 
voice hoarse with anger, her eyes dilated and black. “Because 
you feared this discovery, you attempted to persuade me from 
the room, but you have been foiled. ’Tis well for this portrait 
that it was discovered in the presence of its artist.” 

Willard, with arms folded, stood looking at her; his lip 
curled, but he was silent. His silence only increased her rage 
and she continued: 

“Now that I’ve found the idol you worship, I do not wonder 
that you waste so much of your time here. You have forsaken 
your wife, Willard Allington, for the painting of the girl you 
love — ^yes, I have always known that you loved her, but I did 
not think you guilty of this— hiding from your wife, who has 
a right to claim all your love, a picture of a girl unworthy of 
my thought, but who has robbed me of my husband’s love. I 
would that I could burn it as I did that note years ago, and I 
may yet succeed. Genevieve Layton’s picture will leave your 
studio when Marie Allington — your wife — goes from it.” 

She looked defiantly at him. 


284 


ROSELIN 


'‘You will give me back your love, Willard Allington, or this 
picture is mine, and you dare not touch me.” 

The picture was clasped tightly in her hands and she moved 
resolutely toward the door. Willard made no reply but quickly 
stepped before her, turned the key and dropped it into his 
pocket. He turned to her with a look equally as resolute as her 
own. 

“Marie Allington — my wife — ^must stay here always then,” 
he said, slowly; carelessly he dropped into a chair and leaned 
back as he finished ; “for the picture she holds is not going from 
the room and I cannot tell my wife that I love her.” 

His quiet manner annoyed her more than violent rage would 
have done. 

“I shall crush it before your eyes if you do not open that 
door!” she exclaimed, and quickly she raised it above the chair, 
whose wooden back would, in another instant, have penetrated 
the canvas. 

“How dared you!” she gasped, as she felt her grasp vio- 
lently loosened. 

“How dared you!” he muttered, almost simultaneously. 

“You have a few things to explain before you leave this 
room, Marie,” he continued, vainly trying to compose himself. 
“Sit down,” he commanded, pushing a chair toward her. She 
obeyed and he went on: “You know, Marie, I never told you 
I loved you — I could not say it truthfully — you have not lost 
my love — you never gained it. You have known it from the 
first.” 

“Yes; yes. I’ve known it, but I thought you had forgotten 
Genevieve. You have been deceiving me — silently, secretly paint- 
ing her portrait that you might not forget her, that you might 
not learn to love your wife.” 

“You are mistaken; you do me a wrong. You should know 
that this picture is not a recent likeness; the brush has not 
touched it since you became my wife. The painting there,” he 
pointed toward the corner easel, “is curtained that I may forget 
her.” 

“I wish never again to hear her name — I hate her!” she 
exclaimed angrily. Rising, she drew the curtain from the paint- 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


285 


ing and instantly recognizing the characters it represented, she 
turned swiftly toward him. 

‘'Open that door, Willard; you will be sorry if you keep 
me here longer 

“You can certainly entertain yourself here for a few short 
hours, Marie,” he repeated mockingly. 

“Alone, yes ; with you, never ! Leave me alone and I shall 
be entertained!” she exclaimed, madly gesticulating. 

“One other thing, Marie, and you may go. You spoke, a 
moment ago, of a note;” he paused, and looked piercingly at 
her. Her face flushed crimson and she moved forward. 

“Do you refuse to unlock that door, Willard?” 

“I do,” he returned. 

“Very well, I can wait,” was the reply, and she ignored the 
questions which followed. She had hoped that the mention of 
the note had been forgotten during the conversation, but she 
found Willard quite determined. At last he laid his hand 
on her arm with a firm grasp. 

“Marie, will you not answer me? Tell me; you say it was a 
note you burned — by whom, to whom, wa^it written? Explain 
yourself, Marie, or you may be sorry for A/^at you said.” 

His face was calm, his voice low, but it had in it a tone 
of command. 

“You have no authority to command me to explain, Wil- 
lard, but it is a deed for which I have no regret — if it were 
today, under the same circumstances, I should play the same 
part. If you are so anxious to learn the facts I can gladly 
tell you. Genevieve Layton wrote to you, asking forgiveness 
for accepting Chester Collins as her escort. She left it inVour 
room and there I found it. I read it; I burned it; and I am 
glad I” 

Her figure seemed to have grown in height; her eyes were 
flashing. 

“You burned it, Marie? How could you! Though months 
afterwards I learned its contents, it might have changed my 
future,” he said, bitterly. 

“And mine,” she murmured with an air of contentment. 
“Now if your wish is gratified, you will open the door.” 

“I never suspected you, Marie; I thought better things of 


286 


ROSELIN 


yoviy* he went on, then paused and finished weakly: “But you 
are my wife” 

His voice was mingled with anger and sadness, and as she 
passed him she exclaimed triumphantly: 

“Yes, I am your wife !” 

She was gone, and forgetful of the waiting groom, his head 
sank upon the table and he groaned aloud. After all, how 
many times had he been deceived; how many things had come 
between him and Genevieve — driving their paths farther and 
farther apart! As he thought of Marie’s confession, some- 
thing seemed to tell him that he had been deceived to the 
end — his eyes were only beginning to open — when would he see 
the light — when would he know why Genevieve had written 
so coldly in reply to his ardent appeal? The memory of that 
note which Marie had destroyed seemed to bring back to him 
Genevieve’s love, blooming and fresh. It was his; she had loved 
him ; she loved him still. 

He did not know how long he had remained there — the 
sound of Marie’s voice came to him from an upper room, 
happily warbling the notes of a song — he shuddered; she had 
forgotten the studio, the paintings, her husband and Genevieve — 
again she was happy in the thoughts of society — the one joy 
of her life. He was alone in his sorrow. Her clear, sweet 
voice warbled on; madly he rushed from the house. His horse 
stood restlessly pawing at the curbing. Grasping the rein he 
sprang into the saddle and dashed off — he cared not where the 
animal carried him. 

Marie and her mother were leaving the dining-room as Wil- 
lard entered it. 

“I cannot attend the McGregor dinner tonight, Marie; I 
have made other arrangements which will prevent it. I shall 
order the carriage for you and your mother.” 

Mrs. Carrelton cast a bright, beaming smile upon him, and 
Marie replied : 

“You need not trouble about the carriage; I have ample 
time to see about everything. I have rung for Mary; she will 
serve your lunch at once.” 

Silently, moodily, he sat in the spacious, sunny dining-room, 
alone, while Mary flitted noiselessly in and out. The room was 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


287 


the picture of ease and comfort — large, bright and airy — but 
he felt that on all sides had arisen a dark wall, through which 
he could not penetrate. On the opposite side love was shining 
for him, but he could not reach it. He had kept a promise he 
should never have given — he had ruined his own life by accept- 
ing the mistaken guidance of his father — the father who had 
thought wealth could make him happy. But the wealth had 
not been gained; happiness had instantly vanished and, regard- 
less of the money he received for his paintings, his fortune was 
fast slipping from him. 

While Willard was dreamily finishing his lunch, Marie and 
her mother were in the midst of their arrangements for the 
McGregor dinner. 

“I am delighted that Willard has other arrangements !” she 
exclaimed. “Lord Bonhuer is delightful, and at the theatre 
last evening he offered himself as my escort for tonight. He 
is splendid and the most congenial of companions. Indeed, I 
do not care to have my husband order the carriage for tonight; 
that honor I shall confer upon Lord Bonhuer,” she laughed. 
“I shall send a message to him at once if you are willing, 
mamma.” 

“Indeed, my dear, send him your message by all means. I 
like him very well and if you admire him I could not think of 
depriving you of his companionship. He is very interesting and 
I think Willard would offer no objections so long as I accom- 
pany you.” 

“Indeed, mamma, Willard shall have no opportunity to ob- 
ject. It is quite unnecessary to inform him of my every move- 
ment.” 

“Certainly, dear, you know what is best,” Mrs. Carrelton re- 
plied, and glancing for a moment at the jewels her daughter 
had carelessly dropped into her lap, she murmured softly; “and 
I am glad you are happy, Marie.” 

“Yes, mamma, without wealth I think I should die !” she ex- 
claimed; “with it I can be happy, regardless of aught else.” 

During the weeks which followed, Willard often heard his 
wife’s name linked with that of Lord Bonhuer. “Say, Ailing- 
ton, Lord Bonhuer is quite attentive to your wife,” his com- 
panions would frequently remark; “you should watch them more 


288 


ROSELIN 


closely than you do.'* But these remarks had no effect upon 
him. His manner was unchanged; he continued to join them 
in their nights of dissipation, and Lord Bonhuer was still un- 
watched. It mattered little to Willard what Marie did; she 
was as free to follow her desires as though her husband were 
in a foreign land. 

Marie shrank from spending another summer at Lakeview. 
She detested its quiet freedom more thoroughly than ever 
before. Willard could do as he liked; she was fully resolved 
to spend a part of the summer at a summer resort, and when 
the first week of June came she and her mother departed for 
Atlantic City. At Willard’s request, his sisters came, the week 
following, and he felt that the old life was renewed. 

The first day in Boston told Lillian that her worst fears 
were realized; it brought before Wilma a dreadful truth which 
she had never before suspected. Their brother had wholly dis- 
regarded the lesson the father had so earnestly tried to teach. 
Had he whispered to him of the path of truth and virtue in- 
stead of marriage and wealth, Willard would not have been 
thus changed. In their hearts neither of the sisters could 
deny it — their father had unwittingly done wrong. 

Louis Mandel was in the city and the greater part of Wilma’s 
time was taken by various engagements, but Lillian was almost 
his constant companion. When he painted in the studio she sat 
silently by, busy with her embroidery; when he laid down his 
brush she would look up from her work with some remark 
as to the progress of the painting; when he left her for the 
evening she would follow him to the steps with a sweet, 
cheery good-bye, the memory of which lingered with him dur- 
ing the evening hours, and during his absence she silently prayed 
that he would be safely led past the temptations with which 
he was sure to meet. Before the balmy month of flowers 
and sunshine had passed he had realized the danger of the 
life he was living. Lillian’s sweet, innocent presence had' 
brought it vividly before him, and now and then he gave up 
a night ‘‘with the boys” to remain at home with his sisters. 

One evening they were sitting on the veranda — Louis Mandel 
had joined them and they sat in the bright moonlight con- 
versing — when the telephone bell rang violently. Lillian sprang 


WILLARD AND MARIE 


289 


up and a moment later she called: “A telegram for you, Wil- 
lard/’ 

‘‘From the fellow for whom Fm doing the painting, I sup- 
pose,” he said, as he took the receiver from her hand; but the 
face which turned to her, the next moment, struck terror to 
her heart. To her anxious questions he only replied: “Let me 
think, Lillian; let me think! It cannot be true!” 

It was a message from Mrs. Carrelton, telling him of the 
death of her daughter — his wife. Marie had met death quite 
suddenly, quite unexpectedly, while motoring near Atlantic 
City. His face was buried in his hands; he could not analyze 
his feelings; the shock was so great that he seemed suddenly 
paralyzed and for a time they strove in vain to ascertain the 
cause. He must go at once to the grieving mother; he must 
bring his wife back to her home, and with an effort he aroused 
himself; but as one in a trance he prepared for his journey — so 
sad, so unexpected. 

Later it was learned that Marie had been motoring with 
Lord Bonhuer when the accident occurred. The car had been 
overturned — the chauffeur and Lord Bonhuer seriously injured — 
Marie Allington killed almost instantly. 

The home in Boston was suddenly changed to deepest gloom — 
society mourned and wept. The bright, sparkling Marie was 
coming home; but how different from the home-coming she 
had expected when she had departed full of life and beauty. 

Often, in the days following the funeral, Willard would say 
sadly to himself : 

“Poor Marie; I am sorry she was my wife; with someone 
to love her she might have found more happiness in life. I 
wish the past could have been different.” 


290 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XLIII 

LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 

The days of that summer were hot and dry — the smoke-laden 
atmosphere of Boston was almost intolerable. July and part 
of August passed, still Willard and his sisters lingered in the 
city. Lillian had grown quite strong again; her cheeks were 
full and rosy, her eyes bright; but there were new fears aris- 
ing in her heart and she often looked anxiously from her 
brother’s worn face to that of her sister. For many months her 
cheeks had been paling, her lips losing their brilliant hue, her 
step its tripping bouyancy. As the heat of the summer in- 
creased, racking headaches had confined her, day after day, 
to her room. Her face would sometimes flush crimson, then 
the color would die as quickly as it had come, leaving it 
whiter than before. Wilma never spoke of her failing health, 
but she complained continually of the heat. 

Few invitations came now. The greater part of society’s 
circle was spending the summer at fashionable resorts or at 
country homes; and at last, Wilma proposed going to Lake- 
view. To this Willard gave a solemn refusal. He would not 
go there; he had given Mrs. Carrelton the privilege of making 
Lakeview her home for the summer and coming winter. Now 
that she had no claim on his possessions, she had no other place 
to go. He would not go to Lakeview, and Lillian timidly sug- 
gested Roselin. 

“No, I shall not go to Roselin,” Wilma said, firmly, and with 
one glance at Willard, Lillian saw that she had spoken his 
sentiment. She had been mistaken in thinking of Roselin ; Gene- 
vieve was at the cottage and, had Wilma consented, Willard 
could not have thought of going to Roselin. 

It was not until the middle of August that they fully decided 
to leave Boston; then upon consulting a physician, Wilma was 
advised to leave the city. A trip through the west would greatly 


LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 


291 


benefit her, he said, and Willard, striving to forget that she 
had played an important part in the molding of his past life, 
willingly closed the doors of his home and accompanied her. 

His face was thin and haggard, his eyes large and black, his 
breath seldom free from the odor of liquor, and Lillian felt 
that he, too, had much need of rest, and the fresh western 
breeze would be beneficial. Vainly she remonstrated with him 
on the subject of intemperance, but she hoped that getting 
away from the old companions would do much for him. 

Carefully they planned the trip; Willard and Wilma were 
going over the Northern route through the Great Lake region 
to Chicago, then southward to St. Louis. They would stop at 
a number of places along the way and it would perhaps be 
several weeks before they reached St. Louis. There Lillian 
would join them. She was going south — to Vale Cottage. Both 
Mrs. Allington and Grace had written in the early spring, ask- 
ing her to visit them, and now she had resolved to see Vale 
Cottage. Two years had passed since she had seen Grace — 
Grace who had taken Llewellyn from her — but she had long 
ago forgiven — she had almost forgotten that Grace had sinned; 
and now, while her brother and sister lingered along their 
northern route, she was going south, then up the river from 
New Orleans and join them on their journey further west. 

The day previous to their departure she started on her way — 
stopping for a day at Roselin. Genevieve, who during the year, 
since she had left the “Carlson and Collins” office, had been 
at home helping her mother with the sewing and assisting 
Robert about the farm, warmly welcomed her to the cottage, 
and together they wandered slowly about the place. 

“Roselin is still the dearest place to me, Genevieve,” Lillian 
said, as they sat down upon the step; “the happiest days I 
have known were spent here. I feel that I am almost a child 
again when I sit here and watch the birds and flowers. I can 
hardly realize that I am a woman of twenty-four, and you — 
you, Genevieve, twenty-five.” 

“Yes, but the sweetness of childhood still lingers with you, 
Lillian, while I — I have lost all the beauty I once possessed.” 

“Indeed, Genevieve, you have changed, but to me you are 
more beautiful than ever before,” was the sincere reply. 


292 


ROSELIN 


‘I’m glad you can say it,” Geneveive returned, faintly smil- 
ing. “But with Roselin changed, our little home seems strangely 
changed; I never suspected that it could make such a differ- 
ence.” 

Lillian arose and looked up at the carelessly trailing vines; 
at the swaying, unkept roses above her; then at the closely cur- 
tained windows; and lastly out to the forsaken garden. 

“Yes, Genevieve, the dear old place is sadly changed. I 
have always thought of Roselin with its well kept lawn, care- 
fully trained vines and roses trimmed and tended. I have never 
thought of it in this condition — overgrown with grass and 
flowers and shrubs untrimmed.” 

Slowly they started down the path beside the lake, which, 
during the past year, Genevieve’s feet had kept dimly outlined. 
All about it tall grass was waving. The margin of the lake was 
choked with tall, dank sedges, forming a green, rugged out- 
line. The whole place had an appearance of desolation and 
neglect; and tears silently fell upon Lillian’s cheeks, as they 
walked back to the cottage. They paused at the little brook, 
just back of the cottage, and for a time sat idly watching 
the clear babbling water, just as they had done in childhood. 

“Will you not come to Boston some time and visit us, 
Genevieve?” Lillian asked at last, and as Genevieve hesitated 
she continued: “Please do not hesitate, Genevieve, because we 
are with Willard now; I think he considered your refusal in 
every way final; and I do want so much to have you visit me, 
dear. You will come when we return from the west, will you 
not ?” 

Genevieve’s cheeks burned scarlet: “My refusal?” she asked 
simply, wonderingly, as Lillian’s arm slipped about her waist. 

“Yes; he considered it final; he was confident he could never 
win you before he married Marie — and now that she is gone, 
do not hesitate to visit us, Genevieve; if you refused him before 
he was married he would not think of striving to win you 
now.” 

Genevieve sat bewildered; when had she refused Willard? 
Lillian had been deceived! Dear, innocent Lillian believed her 
brother had asked her to be his wife and she had refused him ! 
The memory of the lonely days when she had loved another’s 


LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 


293 


husband, almost forced her to reveal the secret, but she uttered 
not a word — now that his wife was dead, now that he was free, 
he was as far from her as during the year past — he was still 
the husband of another. Lillian had been deceived! 

“He never told me your reply to his letter, Genevieve,” Lil- 
lian went on; “but I saw by his face that you had refused him. 
Every hope of gaining you died then, I think; and you cannot 
imagine my disappointment when I knew that you were not to 
be my sister. When I knew he had written, I thought you 
would not refuse.” 

“Refused, Lillian; I do not understand. I have never re- 
fused your brother; I have never received a letter from him 
since I went back to Baltimore, two years ago. I was charged 
with sin and guilt — he told me then, that he believed me inno- 
cent — ^but while you and your sister asked me to forgive and 
forget, he remained silent. You have been deceived, Lillian; 
I have had no word from him.” 

It was Lillian who was now surprised and bewildered, and 
she gazed at her in dumb astonishment. 

“It seems to me a strange mystery, Genevieve,” she gasped 
at last; “I know Willard wrote you while we were at the 
seashore, almost two years ago; I saw the sealed, addressed 
envelope with my own eyes. He held it up for my inspec- 
tion, and said, the reply would make him happy — but he was 
disappointed, Genevieve, it made him sad. You wrote to him 
after he went to Boston did you not, Genevieve?” 

“Yes; on request I wrote to him telling him he was free 
from the early ties which he felt still bound him by honor to 
me — though there was really nothing between us. I wrote noth- 
ing more, save to wish him happiness in his future life — I re- 
ceived no reply; only the account of his marriage to Marie 
reached me.” 

“He asked you to release him from those ties, Genevieve?” 

“No; he did not ask it, but he wished it.” 

“He did not wish it!” Lillian declared emphatically. “I wish 
I knew who asked it.” 

“It matters not, now — it cannot be changed,” Genevieve re- 
plied; “but you see, Lillian, how impossible it is for me to 
think of visiting you in Boston.” 


294 


ROSELIN 


“Yes, I understand, Genevieve; it is useless for me to in- 
sist/’ 

There were other reasons, too, why Genevieve could not 
visit Lillian; Wilma’s and Willard’s presence formed equal parts 
of the barricade between them. Wilma, who had so cruelly 
slighted her in the past — how would she receive her now? How 
scornfully had she ignored her in Baltimore; in Boston — in 
her brother’s home — how much more haughty would she be? 
She had, perhaps, written falsely too, and Genevieve wondered 
if she could forgive the wrong she had done her. As she re- 
called the words of that letter she could almost detect its 
falseness — how adroitly had Wilma planned it — how smoothly 
was it written, how deceiving were those lines. Yes, Wilma 
had deceived her as Lillian had been deceived by Willard. Her 
opinion of Willard was unchanged — he had forgotten her — he 
had loved Marie and married her — she had died — but the future 
for her remained unchanged. She was going back to the busi- 
ness life and had already procured a position in Lowell for the 
winter, and that alone was ample excuse for not visiting Bos- 
ton. 

There were many things over which Lillian pondered as she 
sped southward. Why had Genevieve not received that letter? 
Who had told her that Willard wished to be released? How 
had it all happened? Did Genevieve really love him? Did she 
mean to say that she would not have refused? Her tone, her 
manner, had revealed nothing, but Lillian half believed she loved 
him. 

A light rain had fallen when she reached Vale Cottage, and 
the southland was fresh and bright and beautiful. Mrs. Ailing- 
ton and Grace were quite cordial in their greeting and she 
felt that the weeks would pass quietly, smoothly and happily 
with them at Vale Cottage. 

Days passed and there was no mention ot Llewellyn and 
she began to wonder if he had deceived Grace, as she her- 
self had been deceived. She had some times dreamed of 
Grace as the wife of Dr. Greymore, but Grace was still free, 
still bright and happy, with apparently no thought of Llewellyn. 
Perhaps, after all, he had proven himself false; and indeed 
Grace herself had begun to think Llewellyn false. It was two 


LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 


295 


years since he had left Roselin — ^two years since he had told her 
his secret, and yet, not a word had come from him. The 
secret — still withheld from her mother — had almost died in her 
heart — it was false — false, or he would have found her ere 
this. 

One evening, a week after her arrival, Lillian sat at the 
open window of the little parlor when suddenly looking up 
from her embroidery she saw a motor car stop at the gate and 
two figures alight. Grace sat at the piano, idly fingering the 
keys, and before she turned from her music they were coming 
up the walk. It was Dale Clinton and — and — who was the 
taller man? — his step, his form, seemed familiar — was it — was 
it — ^yes, it was Llewellyn. Quickly she turned to Grace, whose 
face was as brilliant as hers was colorless. 

‘‘You did not tell me, Grace,’’ she said. 

‘‘No, Lillian, I’ve not seen Llewellyn since I saw him at 
Roselin — have not heard from him? I little suspected his com- 
ing today with Dale.” Her voice plainly showed her surprise. 

“Do they know I am here, Grace?” 

“No, I wished to surprise Dale — I did not tell him.” 

Dale and Llewellyn were at the door. 

“Let me go, Grace; let me go; I will not see them,” Lillian 
exclaimed, attempting to free her hand and escape through the 
sitting-room, to the kitchen, and up the back stairway, but 
Grace held her fast. 

“No, Lillian, you cannot run away from me now. You are 
no more surprised than I am; and I dare say, a surprise is 
awaiting them as well. Stay, Lillian,” she added in a whisper, 
as Delia admitted them. 

As Grace released her hand and turned to greet them, Lil- 
lian, realizing that escape was now impossible, sank down in 
the chair in the corner, and, assuming a careless attitude, her 
eyes fell again to her embroidery. The summer twilight was 
just falling, and the light streaming through the open window 
only deepened the shadow about her and for a time she was 
not observed. 

“I was beside myself with joy when I learned you were 
here!” Llewellyn exclaimed to Grace after the first words of 
greeting. It was the same low, musical voice, and Lillian felt 


296 


ROSELIN 


the burning blood rush back to her cheeks as she heard it; 
her eyes involuntarily raised to his face. It was slightly changed 
since she last saw it — on the river after he had rescued their 
helpless craft — it was bright and gleaming with happiness now, 
and like her own, had regained a part of its former bloom. 
Though the lines about the mouth were deeper than before, 
the eyes slightly sad, there was a light of love shining from 
their dark, dreamy depths as they looked down upon Grace’s 
radiant, excited face. His hands still retained one of hers and 
she made no attempt to withdraw it. Love, joy and gladness 
seemed thrilling her very soul and for a moment Dale was 
almost forgotten. 

A dark frown settled upon his brow; with a simple word 
of greeting she had turned from him to Llewellyn. “Confound 
it!” he muttered inaudibly; “of course, Greymore had to ap- 
pear just as I was nearing a chance. ’Tis just my luck! Con- 
found it !” 

“I reached New Orleans last night,” Llewellyn went on, 
without releasing her hand; “I found Mr. Clinton at the office 
this morning, learned from him that you and your mother were 
here, that he would be calling this evening, and begged him 
to allow me to accompany him. At last he consented and 
promised not to inform you of my arrival.” 

“I had begun to think you had forgotten your old friends 
or had been swallowed up by the turmoil of Chicago, Llewellyn. 
I cannot express my pleasure at ” Grace was interrupted. 

Dale, who had been standing silently by, jealously watching 
them, turned suddenly on his heel, started toward the window, 
then suddenly stopped. 

“Lillian Allington !” he exclaimed ; “who ever thought of 
seeing you here?” 

At the sound of her name Llewellyn started; his hands fell 
at his sides and he stared vacantly after Dale; then Lillian 
moved, arose and extended her hand and her white figure — her 
face equally as white — was gracefully outlined in the shadowed 
gloom. 

“Grace wished to surprise you,” she replied softly, calmly. 

Llewellyn’s face was changed — the color, the brightness, the 
happiness, all faded, 


f 

LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 297 

“Lillian?’' he breathed. 

“Yes, you and Dale have corporated together to surprise me 
and after all I have a surprise for you — Lillian has been my 
guest for almost a week.” Grace spoke half gayly, but the 
sadness of Llewellyn’s face pained her. 

He moved toward Lillian, and turning from Dale, she ex- 
tended her hand with the same calmness. Her greeting was 
no less cordial. It was a strange meeting — the meeting between 
them — each secretly striving to compose themselves — each at- 
tempting to appear with a natural calmness, which they did 
not feel. The moments dragged slowly on; then Dale came to 
the rescue and adroitly mingling mirth and wit with topics of 
general interest, he led them into the conversation with un- 
rivaled ease and the hours slipped smoothly by. 

Shortly before they departed, Llewellyn, seizing an oppor- 
tunity to speak with Grace alone, said : 

“May I come again tomorrow, Grace? May I see you and 
your mother alone?” 

“Come when you can, Llewellyn. Had I permitted it, Lil- 
lian would have left us this evening — mamma and I can see 
you alone when you wish it.” 

“I shall come tomorrow,” he returned. 

The moon had not risen and it was dark on the veranda 
when they took their leave. At the gate they met Mrs. Ailing- 
ton, who had been driving with a neighbor. Dale addressed 
her : 

“Mrs. Allington, you have met Dr. Llewellyn Greymore, 
have you not?” 

“No; we have not met, though I have heard a great deal 
about you. Dr. Greymore, and I am very glad to know you.” 
She extended her hand — ^^he took it. A moment later he was 
gone — his heart in a turmoil of emotion. 

Half an h6ur later Grace, wrapped in a brilliantly flowered 
kimono, burst into her mother’s room. 

“Oh, mamma !” she exclaimed excitedly, “you know Dale 
came this evening, and guess ! — guess who was with him !” Her 
face was radiant, and throwing her arms around her mother’s 
neck she kissed her, then slipped to the stool at her feet “Oh, 


298 


ROSELIN 


mother dear, you can never guess who it was.” She folded her 
hands in her lap and awaited the reply. 

‘'Could it have been Llewellyn Greymore?” Mrs. Allington 
asked, smilingly. 

“Yes, it was Llewellyn! How did you guess?” 

“I met them as I came in, dear. I could not see his face 
but I liked his voice.” 

“Yes, you will like him too,” Grace broke in; “he is com- 
ing again tomorrow, and — and — he wants to see you and me 
alone. I think he has something to tell us, to make us happy.” 

“Happy?” Mrs. Allington looked wonderingly at her. “I 
think you are very happy tonight; I think my daughter loves 
Llewellyn.” 

“Love Llewellyn! Who would not love him? Lillian loves 
him; I love him, and you will love him. But oh, how different 
is our love,” she returned. 

“If you both love Llewellyn Greymore, I fear your friend- 
ship cannot last forever,” was Mrs. Allington’s serious reply, 
and her hand caressed Grace’s fallen curls. 

“That very fact would save our friendship if it were almost 
severed; he loves Lillian as — as I scarcely hope to be loved. I 
could see it all, tonight, though they both were silent — each 
knows not what the other feels.” 

“You puzzle me, Grace, I cannot understand you.” 

“I cannot explain tonight, mamma dear; tomorrow you shall 
know.” 

Again she kissed her and fled from the room as joyfully as 
she had come, leaving Mrs. Allington to ponder alone. She 
could not understand her daughter’s love; she had thought she 
loved Dale Clinton. She could pot understand Llewellyn’s wish 
to see her alone with Grace. Would he ask her for her daugh- 
ter’s hand? — had Grace already given him her heart? Why was 
she so happy? Was not Lillian — her friend, her guest — suffer- 
ing from the visit which had given happiness to her? Would 
Grace be happy to leave her mother — leave her southern home — 
and go to the north with Dr. Greymore? Would she be happy 
to break Lillian’s loving heart, marry the man who — as she had 
confessed — continued to love Lillian, and crush Dale Clinton’s 
hopes? Could all that make Grace happy? 


LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 


299 


At last she arose from her reverie and her heart cried out: 

“Yes, I must give her up; I must give my little girl to Llew- 
ellyn Greymore and I must be content. Oh, my son, my dear, 
lost son, if you were only her-e to comfort me when she goes. 
But it cannot be! I cannot deny Grace Llewellyn's love." 

Grace had hurried back to her room, there to find Lillian 
softly sobbing, her face buried in the pillows. Instantly the 
brightness of her own face faded; she crossed the room and 
knelt at Lillian's side. 

“Please do not do it, Lillian — it is useless to shed tears — it 
will all come right in the end, for Llewellyn loves you still." 

“Loves me still, indeed I" 

There was a touch of scorn in Lillian's voice in spite of the 
mingled tears, and she drew slightly away from Grace's touch. 

“Yes, I'm sure he loves you and I'm glad you were here to- 
night. You played and sang so beautifully — no one could have 
read your heart." 

Lillian was silent and she went on: 

“I'm sorry your engagement was broken and, though I have 
never known the cause, I trust it will some day be renewed." 

“Pardon me for saying it, Lillian," she added as Lillian 
raised her face and looked searchingly at her. 

“Yes, I will pardon you; but no one can know the cause bet- 
ter than yourself, Grace." 

“I?" she asked in astonishment. 

“Willard and Wilma know but little of the story, Grace; you 
know it all." 

“I?" she asked again; “I know nothing." 

“Very well; it matters not — our engagement has long been 
broken and I'm sorry we have met tonight." 

Grace was puzzled and silently she turned out the light and 
crept into bed, but she could not sleep — Lillian could not sleep — 
Mrs. Allington could not sleep. 

The suri was blazing, the birds singing, when the occupants 
of the Vale Cottage arose on the following morning — a day des- 
tined to be one of importance in the lives of both Mrs. Alling- 
ton and Grace — a day never to be forgotten. Apparently the 
morning passed with the usual smoothness, but beneath the outer 
surface each heart was in a turmoil of emotion. 


300 


ROSELIN 


Shortly after noon, the friend who had taken Mrs. Allington 
driving the previous evening, came for Lillian. “I want Miss 
Allington to see the beauty of our southland,’’ she said, as Lil- 
lian seated herself beside her. “We are going south and up 
along the seashore, but I promise to return her before dark.” 
The big, black horse dashed off and Lillian waved a fluttering, 
lacy handkerchief on the southern breeze. They were gone, and 
Grace, slipping her arm around her mother’s waist, turned her 
toward the house. 

“How easily that was arranged,” she said; “and Lillian will 
never suspect that I planned it.” 

It was almost an hour later that Llewellyn came and as Grace 
met him on the rose-covered veranda he drew her to him and 
kissed her. 

“I can at last claim this privilege, Grace, though once — the 
last time I saw you at Roselin — I took the privilege, I was not 
so confident of my right. Now I know it is true.” 

“I knew it was true when you came last night with Dale. I 
have been faithful to my promise, and, though I have been 
tempted many times to tell our secret, I have kept it safely. 
Mamma has never suspected that I held anything from her. I 
have continually reminded myself that it might prove untrue, 
and at last I came to believe that it was all false. Two years 
have been so long to wait.” 

“I know, Grace; it has been long to me, but there has been 
much to do in that time and I feel that I have done it well. I 
have made a chain of every link; I think nothing has been lost 
in waiting. I have so much to say to you, Grace, before I see 
your mother. Let us walk through the garden; I love this little 
home of yours; I love its surroundings. I have many times pic- 
tured it to myself. 

They talked long of the past, of the present and of the fu- 
ture; then slowly they went back to the house and Grace led the 
way to the sitting-room, where Mrs. Allington stood at the open 
window. Crimson roses clustered in a profusion around it, 
and, after breaking one red, swaying cluster from its stem, she 
was turning about when they entered. Her gray dress made a 
somber background for the brilliant flowers in her hand. Her 
face was slightly sad, her hair softly tinted with gray. 


LLEWELLYN AT VALE COTTAGE 


301 


For an instant Llewellyn paused in the doorway and Grace 
hurried on to her mother’s side; but Mrs. Allington’s glance 
went past her to Llewellyn’s face. It was strikingly handsome 
with its big, brown eyes, its firm, expressive mouth, its fair 
brow shaded by dark locks of waving brown hair, and a nose 
and chin which gave character to the face. The lines about the 
mouth were deep, and showed more plainly than aught else the 
character of the man. Without them he would have been less 
handsome, less attractive. Llewellyn’s face was one to be ad- 
mired — one to be trusted — and as Mrs. Allington looked at it for 
the first time, she did not wonder that Grace and Lillian loved 
him. His head was poised on shoulders broad and square; and 
clad in a stylishly fitted suit of gray, which gave both style and 
neatness to his form, he stood looking at her with an expres- 
sion so much like Grace sometimes bent upon her that Mrs. Al- 
lington slightly started. 

For only a moment he stood silently, then came forward, took 
both her hands with a grasp so firm it almost pained, quickly re- 
leased them, turned from her with a sudden movement which 
brought a look of astonishment to her face, and seated himself 
upon the divan opposite, vainly striving to compose himself. 

Grace pushed her mother’s chair nearer the divan. “Sit here, 
mamma,” she said, drawing her lovingly toward it, “I’m glad 
Llewellyn can at last tell you his secret.” 

Still Llewellyn was silent, and sitting down beside him she 
slipped her ruby necklace into his hand. “It is a secret con- 
nected with my rubies, mamma,” she explained, and his eyes 
went from the crimson stones back to Mrs. Allington’s face, 
and in a voice low and steady he began : 

“I come to you with a story, Mrs. Allington — a story over 
which I have long pondered; and I trust you will listen to the 
end — it is a story which some, perhaps, would doubt, but I think 
you will listen and be interested.” 

He paused for no reply and he spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as 
he went on: 

“Two years ago I gave Grace this necklace ; it was not friend- 
ship — it was not love alone which prompted me. It was a story, 
a secret I could not tell her then. Shortly afterward — the last 


302 


ROSELIN 


time I saw her at Roselin — I told her the story I am now bring- 
ing to you.” 

could not tell you, mamma,” Grace broke in, ‘‘for I had 
given my promise; and had it not been for the promise, I could 
not have told, for I feared it would bring disappointment to us 
both.” 

“Very well, Grace; we will talk of that later.” Her mother’s 
voice was calm and firm. “Go on with your story, Dr. Grey- 
more ; I will gladly listen to all you wish to say.” 

“Thank you,” he replied ; “but to you I can be no other than 
Llewellyn.” 

His voice was strangely unsteady and he paused a moment 
before continuing his story. 


LLEWELLYN^S SECRET 


303 


CHAPTER XLIV 

LLEWELLYN^S SECRET 

Silently he drew from his pocket a velvet case. 

“I remember but little of my early life/’ he began; “I only 
know that the days of my early childhood were happy ones, with 
a father and mother whom I loved and a tiny sister — my only 
playmate. Then dreamily, to me, they slipped suddenly out of 
my life and I became the adopted son of General and Mrs. 
Windford Greymore. For nineteen years the General has been 
to me a kind and loving father; at the death of Mrs. Grey- 
more, five years ago, I lost a mother’s love, and had it not been 
for the faint, sweet recollections of the early past I should have 
thought myself their own and only son. But child though I was 
at the time of my adoption, that memory has lingered with me 
through the years and my life had been, to me, a mystery. My 
father — General Greymore — a sister of his and Grace are the 
only persons, to my knowledge, who are acquainted with the 
story of my life — to you I am bringing that mystery solved.” 

Slowly he unclasped the velvet case and took from it a golden 
locket. He arose and moved to Mrs. Allington’s side. 

“Tell me,” he said, opening it and laying it in her hand; 
“have you ever seen a face like this?” 

With arms folded he stepped back, and with a strange ex- 
pression of mingled hope and expectation, stood looking down 
at her. 

It was the picture of a small boy upon which Mrs. Allington’s 
eyes fell — a boy with dark, waving hair and big, dark eyes — a 
face she had seen before. Suddenly a mist floated before her; 
she could scarcely see the picture, and her grasp on the little 
locket tightened. 

“Where did you get it?” she gasped. “My darling Eldred — 
my little son ! Where did you get it ?” 

Instantly Llewellyn was kneeling at her side and his arms 
were stretched out to her. 


304 


ROSELIN 


“Mother!” he exclaimed. “It is I — I who was lost at sea — 
I am Eldred Llewellyn Wilton, your son.” 

Mrs. Allington drew back. 

“It cannot be!” she exclaimed. “My son was drowned — he 
is dead.” 

“No, he is not dead ! Believe me, mother ; I am your son. I 
faintly remember the day I left you and Grace — for what, I did 
not know. I was rescued from the sea and in Cuba I found a 
home with General Greymore. At last I have found you, mother 
— will you not claim your lost boy — will you not love him as you 
did those first six years of his life?” 

Mrs. Allington did not move; she made no reply and Grace 
came to her side. 

“Believe him, mamma,” she exclaimed; “he has ample proof 
of his identity. Llewellyn is my brother ; he is your son.” 

Grace was now kneeling beside Llewellyn and Mrs. Allington 
silently studied the two faces, her eyes frequently going back 
to the little locket. 

“Yes, they are alike; very much alike,” she murmured at 
last, and Llewellyn recalled having uttered those very words 
when studying his face in the mirror years before and compar- 
ing with it Grace’s features. 

“It must be so,” she gasped; “it must be so.” 

The room grew dark; she felt dizzy and faint; she swayed 
in her chair, but Llewellyn’s arms were around her and a mo- 
ment later Grace bent over her, raising a glass of water to her 
lips. 

“Go on with your story,” she said at last; “I must know it 
all; I must know you are my son;” and still kneeling at her 
side, with one hand clasped in his, he related to her the story 
of his life — the story, a part of which, he had told Grace two 
years before. Grace stood with one arm around her mother’s 
neck, her hand on Llewellyn’s shoulder. 

Nineteen years before, the Atlanta had sunk near the shores 
of Cuba and Llewellyn faintly remembered the horrors of that 
day. He remembered the wild excitement on board. Sailors 
and passengers rushed madly up and down the deck. He re- 
membered the sadness of his father’s face, the strangeness of 
his voice as he spoke to him. He could recall the angry roar 


LLEW^LLYN^S SECRET 


305 


of the water as it swept over the wreck, carrying them out into 
the ocean; then for a time all was lost. He could recall noth- 
ing until, on opening his eyes, he found himself in the arms’ of 
Mrs. Greymore. The General was bending over him. Dear, lov- 
ing faces they were; full of tender sympathy for the little or- 
phan boy. 

The life-boats had saved only a few and Llewellyn had been 
picked up by a fishing-boat further down the shore. At first 
they had thought the little form lifeless, and carelessly they had 
lifted him from the floating timbers and carried him to a house 
near by. There General Greymore had seen him and taken him 
to his home. Mrs. Greymore had received him with open arms 
and held the little, limp, unconscious body close to her heart. 
The brown eyes had opened, but again they had closed; and it 
was days before they had opened again to consciousness — 
months before he regained his strength. Day after day, night 
after night, he had cried for his mother, begged for his father 
to come back to him, and talked of his little sister. Mrs. Grey- 
more always tenderly soothed him; often talking to him of his 
mother and home. He remembered his name as Eldred Llew- 
ellyn Wilton and his foster parents chose to call him Llewellyn. 
He had forgotten his father’s name. He knew they had left the 
mother and little sister, but for what reason he did not know, 
and the Greymore’s naturally supposed that the father and 
mother had been divorced — the one taking the son, the other 
keeping the daughter. And after one feeble attempt to find the 
mother they gave up all effort and gladly accepted him as their 
son. They had no children and upon him they lavished all their 
love. For six years they remained in Cuba, during which time 
General Greymore’s sister, an accomplished teacher, was his gov- 
erness. He was twelve years old when they went to England 
and there he received the best educational advantages the coun- 
try afforded and bore away the laurels of his class. At the age 
of seventeen he came, with the family, back to the United States. 
The General and Mrs. Greymore seldom talked to him now of 
his adoption; they strove to fill every vacancy in his heart — to 
make him feel that he was their own son, and partially they had 
succeeded. But beneath the love, the honor, he bestowed upon 
them, was the faint, sweet memory of his own mother’s love; 


20 


306 


ROSELIN 


and perhaps that mother was living, some place in America. 
There he might some day find her; and at last that day had 
come. ^ 

“When I met Grace in Baltimore, I was strangely drawn to 
her; I knew not why,” Llewellyn continued. ‘T did not remem- 
ber my sister’s name; to me she was simply ‘sister’ — a name I 
have always loved. Strange to say, during her visit in Balti- 
more I have never heard the name Wilton. I was quite feeble 
at the time. Lillian often spoke of her as ‘my sister’; with the 
others it was always ‘Grace’, and I did not doubt but that her 
name was Allington. 

“I cannot describe my astonishment when once I spoke to 
Wilma of her sister Grace and in tones of scorn she called the 
name ‘Grace Wilton’. During my three years in America I had 
met none other by that name and as it fell from her lips I felt 
as I had never felt before; I felt that ere long my own dear 
mother would fill the vacancy my foster mother had so recently 
left and my heart was strangely thrilled. But Wilma misled me ; 
she said her father had met you in a Western State, and I felt 
sure I had left my mother in the south — in New Orleans — from 
which place General Greymore said the Atlanta had sailed. She 
went on to say that she could tell me much of Grace’s life, as 
well as that of the mother, but she had no desire to awaken 
‘ghosts of the past.’ In her home the story was never men- 
tioned; it was unpleasant to them all; and she begged of me to 
repeat nothing she had said. Surely this could not be my 
mother, I thought, connected with a story from which her step- 
daughter would shrink to speak. I did not know Wilma Alling- 
ton then as I know her now. She deceived me; and I was silent 
on the subject which lay deepest in my heart. On the day fol- 
lowing I met a fellow whose name was Wilton. He did not 
know Grace; he did not know the Allingtons and I came to be- 
lieve that a common name in the east. 

“I went back to Chicago with my father — General Grey- 
more — with no reason to believe that Grace was my sister, I 
went back to a home lacking a mother’s love, but in spite of my 
effort to put it down, I felt that Grace Wilton’s mother was 
mine also. I had thought I loved her because she was Lillian’s 
sister — Lillian my betrothed — ^but now that I knew they were not 


LLEWELLYN^S SECRET 


307 


sisters it did not change. Three years later I came again to 
Baltimore and this time I was determined to prove that Grace 
was or was not my sister. I told my father of my expectations 
and, although he felt that he was losing his son, he hoped, for 
my sake, that the mystery would be solved. He himself had 
noted a strange resemblance between us. I had finished my edu- 
cation and was beginning my practice in medicine then and in 
another year Lillian was to have been my wife. 

‘‘Grace was in Baltimore when I arrived and as I walked 
with her, back to the Moreland Place, after the commencement, 
I studied each feature of her face. I had found among Mrs. 
Greymore^s possessions this little locket, containing the picture 
which had been painted shortly after my arrival in Cuba. With 
Grace’s face I compared this picture; I compared with it my 
own face and I found the resemblance my father had found. 
Quite accidentally I came upon Grace and Lillian while they were 
speaking of Vale Cottage. It was then I learned that hers had 
been a southern home — that it was not far from New Orleans. 
And there I wrote for information. I did not once think I was 
mistaken; I felt sure of the path I was taking. Constantly I 
was compelled to crush down the impulse to take Grace in my 
arms and call her ‘Sister’ — I dared not — I had no proof save this 
little locket. 

“Then came the house-party at Roselin. There I expected to 
meet you — my own dear mother — for such I had come to think 
of you. You were not there, but during those weeks I learned 
what Grace’s life was, and I longed to make her happy. As yet 
I had heard nothing of importance from New Orleans; but I 
determined to give her this ruby necklace, for I had heard from 
Willard how Mr. Allington had refused to grant her wish. At 
first she refused — I told her I would some day tell her my se- 
cret — and a few days later I found I could keep it, my secret 
alone, no longer. That evening on the lake shore at Roselin 
I told her the most important facts of my story — my life — my 
secret. 

“I was happy that evening — for Grace had not doubted my 
story. She had told me what she knew of her father’s sailing 
on the Atlanta and of her brother Eldred. She told me the story 
as you had often told it to her. And now that I knew it, the 


308 


ROSELIN 


letters from New Orleans could be of little importance, for I 
knew that she was my sister — you my mother — and Grace ac- 
cepted me as her brother. But where were my proofs? Would 
you — my mother — accept my story? Would you believe me to 
be the boy which, to you, had been dead seventeen years? Those 
were my fears and I determined to secure every proof possible 
before I brought my story to you. I asked Grace to keep my 
secret for a time, and she gave me her promise. On the morn- 
ing following, before I had left my room, a maid brought me a 
note from Lillian and with it her engagement ring. Our en- 
gagement was broken and to this day I know not why. She 
would not see me; she would not explain, and I left Roselin 
without seeing the two faces dear to me. Lillian refused to see 
me and Grace I could not find — she was not at the house. After 
a time I wrote to her — my letter was returned unopened, as 
were all those which followed it. I could not write to the fam- 
ily for I felt that they had forsaken me, and it was certainly 
they who saw to it that my letters were returned. I could re- 
ceive no word and, until six months ago, I had supposed you 
and Grace still with them. My father’s failing health and my 
practice have taken all of my time since then or I should have 
searched for you ere this. When I came to New Orleans, I 
scarcely hoped to find you and I have nothing with me to con- 
firm my story, except the picture in this little locket.” 

cannot doubt that this is the picture of my boy,” Mrs. Al- 
lington said, as he paused for a moment. During the beginning 
of the story, she had frequently interrupted him with anxious 
questions but for some time she had sat in silence. 

^‘And can you not believe me that same lost boy?” he asked. 

*‘Yes; yes I can accept you as my son upon the evidence of 
your story alone. My darling Eldred ! I have you home once 
more! My poor lost darling!” 

‘‘Mother !” he exclaimed again. “This is the happiest day of 
my life — the moment for which I have been longing since the 
day I left you on the wharf at New Orleans — to have my own 
dear mother’s arms around me ; to have her kiss upon my brow.” 

“Oh, how I wish that you had found us years ago, Eldred; 
how happily the years would have passed; how happy the future 
is to be for us — we three together. Thank God,” she mur- 


LLEWBLLYN^S SECRET 


309 


mured, “my darling boy is given back to me; and you, dear, 
have your brother/^ She drew Grace to her and tears of joy 
and happiness fell upon the heads of her children. 

Grace and Llewellyn were silent, then suddenly he clasped 
both mother and sister in his arms and kissed their happy faces. 

“My mother ! My sister !” he exclaimed, “f have loved you 
always, even though the waters of the Atlantic rolled between 
us.’' 

“How many times we have talked of you, Llewellyn, and 
wished for your presence, your love,” Grace whispered s6ftly. 

“Yes, but you thought me dead, while I — I . To me it 

was all a mystery; I have dreamed of troubles, separations, di- 
vorces, of which I knew nothing. But I knew my mother and 
sister were living and that sometime I might find them and I 
felt that they were pure, noble and true; and such I have found 
them to be — my own dear mother; my darling sister!” 

“I never doubted that you died with your father, Eldred. 
This is a moment for which I have never hoped — the moment 
when my little son would be returned to me, a man as hand- 
some as my baby boy was beautiful. How can I believe that I 
am not dreaming?” 

“It is all true, mother dear,” he assured her; “but I have 
many proofs to bring to you before it is publicly known that 
your son is risen from the sea. Every doubt must be van- 
quished ; there must be no possibility of a mistake ; there must 
be no reason for the most scrupulous person to doubt.” 

“Oh, Llewellyn, must we still keep it a secret?” asked Grace. 

“I have written to my father — General Greymore — and it will 
be only a few days before I hear from him. He will repeat the 
facts of my rescue, my life, and send to me thb blue sailor suit, 
the slippers and a ring I wore on the voyage from New Orleans 
and which I procured from General Greymore’s sister — my for- 
mer governess — some time ago.” 

Mrs. Allington interrupted him. 

“You need no other proof, Eldred,” she said: “I shall know 
them. I can see them now as plainly as if they lay here be- 
fore me — that little blue sailor suit, those tiny patent leather 
slippers and the ring bearing your initials.” 

“E. L. W.” Grace prompted. 


310 


ROSELIN 


‘‘Yes, you will know them,” Llewellyn replied; “you will 
know them. But you must see them, you must hear the story 
as my father writes it to be fully convinced that you are not 
dreaming, mother — that I am Eldred Llewellyn Wilton — your 
son.” 

The reply came slowly and thoughtfully: “Yes, yes, we will 
wait. But you will not leave us, Eldred; we cannot give you 
up now.” 

“No, mother, if you wish it, I shall not leave you,” Llewellyn 
answered. 

“We wish it, Llewellyn; we wish it!” Grace exclaimed. “But 
may we not tell Lillian tonight; please let us tell Lillian.” 

For a time Llewellyn was silent then slowly he replied: 

“I would rather even Lillian did not know until I have given 
every proof.” 

The sun had set and the dim, dusky light of evening had 
fallen when the three left the sitting-room and went out upon 
the veranda, then the conversation went again to Lillian. 

“I know she loves you, Llewellyn,” Grace assured him. “I 
cannot be mistaken ; I think that must have been the cause of 
the change which came over her. They feared for her then, the 
fate which she now fears for Wilma. But I have often won- 
dered why she turned from me during the days following the 
house-party — I was quite alone — ^mamma and Delia were gone ; 
you were gone; Lillian had forsaken me and — and Dale, too, 
had come south.” She paused for a moment then went on : 
“She told me last night, Llewellyn, that I know better than any 
other, the cause of the broken engagement, and, Llewellyn, I 
know nothing, save that Lillian loves my brother.” 

“Then, Grace, why did she send me back my ring? Why did 
she wish to be free? Why did she refuse to explain?” 

“I cannot tell, Llewellyn; I only know that she loves you.” 

“If Lillian loves me,” Llewellyn replied slowly, “I can ask for 
nothing more. Now that I have my mother — my sister.” 

In the shadowed twilight the carriage drew up at the gate 
and Grace hurried from the veranda to meet Lillian. The fresh, 
salt breeze had brought a bright color to her cheeks and the 
loosened curls were clustering about her brow, as she came up 
the walk. Her greeting to Llewellyn was cold and formal and 


LLEWELLYN^S SECRET 


311 


with a silent bow she accepted the chair he offered her. She 
spoke of the drive along the seashore and of the beauties on 
every side, then silently she wondered at the brightness of the 
faces about her. Grace and Llewellyn were happy; Mrs. Ailing- 
ton’s face was brighter than she had ever seen it, while she her- 
self longed to be away from Vale Cottage, its beauties and its 
joys. 

All during the evening Llewellyn watched her. The expres- 
sion of her sweet, spirituous face seldom changed. It was calm 
and sad, and as she and Grace left them for the night Llewellyn 
bent over Mrs. Allington and tenderly kissing her whispered: 

“They are the most beautiful girls I know, and you are 
mother to them both — my own dear mother.” 


312 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XLV 

A PROPOSAL RENEWED 

The sun was just sinking. Only one rounded edge could be 
seen above the horizon and the western sky was tinted with 
glowing colors — pink, purple, orange, ruby and gold. The bril- 
liant blue above had paled and here and there a small, fleecy 
cloud drifted eastward. Lillian stood in the narrow path which 
wound through the marshy meadow west of Vale Cottage, silent- 
ly watching the setting of another day’s sun. A moss-covered 
log lay near, half hidden in the tall, tangled grass, and sinking 

down upon it she turned for a moment to the south. A long, 

level line of trees stretched out in the distance, hiding from view 
the waters of the sea — their dark green foliage outlined against 

the sky. To the east Vale Cottage was almost hidden in the 

bower of climbing roses and blossoming shrubs. 

It was the fourth evening of Llewellyn’s stay, and sitting 
alone on the old log she forgot the beauty of the sunset as she 
pondered over the joys of the past, and thought of the future in 
which Llewellyn had no part. How many times had she looked 
into that future; how many times had she reviewed the past? 
She had forgiven Llewellyn; she had forgiven Grace, but she 
could not forget her love, and, without seeming to do so she had 
avoided them on every possible occasion. The brightness of 
their faces pained her and she wished to be away from Vale 
Cottage — away from the south. Tears stole softly down her 
cheeks as she thought of the home in Boston, closed — of Rose- 
lin, silent and forsaken. How many changes since they had left 
Roselin two years ago — how many pains — how many sorrows. 
Alas, what might the future bring ! 

A step fell almost noiselessly on the soft grass not far away 
and quickly raising her eyes, she found Llewellyn standing in the 
path, with folded arms, silently surveying her. From the win- 
dow of his room he had caught the glimmer of her white dress 


A PROPOSAL RENEWED 


313 


as she hurried through the garden, and leaning out he had heard 
the gate open and close. A moment later he had followed in 
pursuit and for some time had been watching her. 

‘‘Lillian I” he exclaimed, as her eyes met his. 

Instantly she arose and her eyes fell beneath his deep, scruti- 
nizing gaze. 

“I had forgotten that it is getting late,’’ she said, apologet- 
ically. 

She hurried up the path toward him and toward the garden- 
gate. Llewellyn did not move until she came up to him, then 
gently turning her about he said: 

“I did not come here, Lillian, to remind you of the lateness 
of the hour; I did not come to take you back to Vale Cottage. 
I came because I knew you were here alone; I came because I 
have so much to say to you and because I know you will give 
me no opportunity to speak with you alone.” 

“Come, Llewellyn,” she remonstrated, as he led her back to 
the moss-covered log; “it is getting late and Mrs. Allington will 
miss us. We must go back to the house now.” 

“No, Lillian; my — er — Mrs. Allington can have no objections. 
I must ask you one thing, Lillian — the thing you have before 
refused me;” he sat down by her side and her cheeks flushed 
crimson as he finished ; “I ask you once more for an explanation, 
Lillian; will you not give it?” 

“It is I who should demand an explanation, Llewellyn,” she 
returned, rising and facing him. “You ask an explanation? For 
what?” 

He drew from his pocket a folded and worn note and a vel- 
vet ring box. 

“For this,” he said, rising and holding them out to her. She 
only took a step back and stood looking at them. 

“Please be seated, Lillian, and allow me to read this note to 
you,” he continued. 

“I have no wish to hear it,” she returned. 

“And, though I have read it many, many times, I have no 
wish to read it now; but you must hear it — your own words, 
Lillian.” 

Slowly he unfolded it and sadly he read the dimmed words, 
their piercing coldness sinking deep into Lillian’s heart as she 


314 


ROSELIN 


heard them repeated in Llewellyn’s firm, sad, musical tones. She 
had not realized before how icily cold they were. 

4 trust you will consider this final ; I am fully decided that 
it must all end here ; Good-bye, Llewellyn — forever !’ ” he fin- 
ished. 

He paused. Lillian stood quite still and her eyes were not 
raised from the grass at her feet. Slowly he folded the paper, 
replaced it in his pocket and drew from its box the diamond 
ring. Then he moved toward her : 

‘^Must I consider it final, Lillian? You are fully decided that 
it must all end? Will you say now that you do not love me?’^ 

He held both her hands in his and leaned slightly forward. 
She made no reply, but the tears which slipped one after an- 
other from beneath the drooping lashes told him it would not 
be '‘forever.” 

“Tell me, Lillian, that even here it cannot end, for, darling, I 
love you.” 

His voice was full of sad, pleading pathos but still there was 
no reply. She made no attempt to withdraw her hands and a 
moment later he had slipped the ring upon her finger. Pas- 
sionately he raised them to his lips. Instantly she drew them 
from him, and with the diamond still sparkling upon her hand, 
she stepped back. There was no shy drooping of the lashes now 
and her eyes, black and tearless, rested full upon his face. 

“Llewellyn Greymore !” she exclaimed ; “how dared you ! Can 
you ask me to love you; can you wish, now, to renew an en- 
gagement which your conduct has, in every way, broken? You 
say you love me! Llewellyn, you have deceived me once; can I 
fail to disbelieve you now? I trusted you then — yes, I trusted — 
and I lost.” 

“My conduct, Lillian? — I deceived you? I have loved you al- 
ways ; I shall love you to the end of the world, even though you 
reject me.” 

“Ah, Llewellyn, you professed to love me once when you 
loved another; how can I trust you now?” 

“I loved another, Lillian !” he exclaimed. “What do you 
mean? You are the only girl I ever wished to make my wife. 
Believe me, Lillian !” 

“Believe you, Llewellyn! How can I believe you when I 


A PROPOSAL RENEWED 


315 


heard your words of love to another — when I saw you kiss her 
lips, cheek and brow? How can I believe you when my eyes 
revealed to me the truth? How can I doubt that you love her 
still when I watch your daily association with her? Do not 
deny that you love Grace Wilton — my friend — the daughter of 
my stepmother. Recall, if you please, the scene on the lake at 
Roselin and judge for yourself, whether or not I can but doubt 
it.’’ 

Llewellyn stood motionless, speechless. Lillian’s gaze did not 
waver. 

^‘You saw — you heard — that night on the lake?” he stam- 
mered at last. 

“Yes! Quite by accident, it was; but that doesn’t matter — I 
saw — I heard — and I am glad my spiritual guide led me to the 
garden that night.” 

“And it is Grace who has come between us I I need no other 
explanation; I understand now what has before been a mystery 
to me.” 

“And you do not deny that you love her — ^you need not deny 
it I” 

“I have no wish to deny my love for Grace Wilton. I love 
her ! — but my love for you is very different — I have much to ex- 
plain, Lillian ;” he hesitated. No, he could not tell her now, 

that Grace was his sister — that her mother was his. He had 
asked them to keep it from her — he himself would not reveal it. 
He must have every proof before he told Lillian, and there was 
only a few days to wait. He could wait, now that he knew she 
loved him, and Lillian did not suspect the joy which was over- 
flowing his heart as she took the ring from her finger and 
placed it in his hand. 

“You need not explain,” she said coldly. “You love Grace 
and I trust you will never deceive her as you have deceived 
me. 

“Sometime I shall explain, Lillian, and I do not doubt that 
there is a future of happiness yet in store for us. It is useless 
to ask you to keep the ring. But some day, I assure you, even 
though you doubt it now, this ring shall again be yours.” 

“I do doubt it,” she replied emphatically; and silently they 
went back up the narrow path to the garden gate, Llewellyn’s 


316 


ROSELIN 


heart wildly throbbing with love and joy — hers aching with bit- 
ter pain and the love that she thought was lost. 

At the little gate he stopped her: 

“Dear Lillian, you do not know how wholly my heart is 
thine!” he exclaimed. 

She drew away from him : “No, I do not know,” she an- 
swered indignantly, and turning from him she walked away with 
a step as decisive and firm as it was graceful. 

Through the dim light Llewellyn watched her until she 
reached the veranda and the crimson wall of roses came between 
them. She was no longer lost to him — again she was his darling, 
peerless sweetheart — his fairy queen — her heart was his — she 
loved him. 

“It is the hand of a guiding Father that has led me to this 
spot — to mother — to sister — to sweetheart. I am not deserving 
of the joys which have gladdened my heart — the heart which was 
sad and grieving when I came to New Orleans — the heart that 
was longing for love,” he murmured. 

For a time he leaned silently against the gate-post, his head 
bowed down upon his folded arms. The surrounding twilight 
darkened — the swaying, flowering shrubs bordering the pathway 
became dim shadows — the south wind died low — the little vil- 
lage of Western Springs was clad in silence and all the valley 
surrounding it was solemnly still. Then the sound of a motor 
car far out on the New Orleans road aroused him. It must be 
Dale Clinton; and quickly he turned toward the house. The 
lights from the front windows streamed out across the veranda 
and here and there stole through the crimson laden rose-vines. 
The window above was dark. Suddenly a light streamed from 
it — it was open — the shade was not drawn, and he could see Lil- 
lian moving slowly, languidly, about the room. He thought she 
had been weeping, and a moment later, when she came to the 
window, glanced out, then laid her golden head on its wooden 
sill, he knew he had not guessed wrongly. He fancied he could 
almost hear her stifled sobs. 

“Darling!” he whispered, “when you know the story of my 
life, you will forgive me — yes, you will forgive, and together 
we will forget.” 

He walked swiftly on and bounding up the stairs, he hurried 
to Mrs. Allington’s room. 


A PROPOSAL RENEWED 


317 


^'Eldred, my darling boy!’’ she exclaimed, as he came in. 

“Yes, mother dear, it is I,” he returned, bending over her. 

“You look happy, my son, though strangely pale and worn,” 
she remarked. “Sit down and rest awhile, will you not?” 

“If I may sit here,” he replied, throwing himself down on the 
floor at her feet. “You will find, mother, that I am only your 
little boy after all, even though to others I am ‘Dr. Greymore, 
M. D.’ — a man of twenty-five.” 

“Yes, my dear, each day I am with you I find you more like 
my little boy used to be — more like your father was when he 
left me, and to me you are Eldred still.” 

“I like for you to call me Eldred, mother, for I have heard 
that name from no one else. From you it must always be El- 
dred; from Grace and Lillian nothing but Llewellyn. I have 
been talking with Lillian and I now know why she refused to 
be my wife.” 

As he began relating to her their conversation Dale Clin- 
ton’s car drew up at the gate; Dale’s step sounded on the walk 
and his voice, mingled with Grace’s, floated up from the veranda. 

Half an hour later Llewellyn arose: 

“Of course, she will not leave Vale Cottage until Willard and 
Wilma reach St. Louis, and the letters from Father Greymore 
may arrive any day now,” he said; “and I think it best, for us 
all, that I should be absent for a few days, so I shall leave her 
to the care of my own dear mother. You have so successfully 
comforted me, I think you can comfort Lillian. I may return 
at any time — call at least — and after all it may be Mr. Clinton 
will not want to carry a passenger back to New Orleans with 
him tonight. If I go, I shall come up again to say good-bye.” 

“I dislike having you go, Eldred; but as you say, it may be 
best, and we will keep Lillian safely with us until you return. 
She will not think of going until Willard and Wilma reach St. 
Louis.” 

“My own dear mother,” he whispered again, as he kissed her. 

The moon had risen and the sky was thickly set with stars 
when Dale guided his car back over the New Orleans road. 
Llewellyn was with him — silent and moody as was Dale himself. 
The latter had frowned darkly as he greeted Llewellyn; he 
frowned as he watched his parting with Grace and now his mind 


318 


ROSELIN 


seemed wholly occupied with the steering of the machine — he 
looked neither to the right nor to the left, and they sped into 
New Orleans before either of them spoke. The car crept 
smoothly along the moonlit streets then, and Dale suddenly 
turned to Llewellyn: 

“I have always considered you a friend, Dr. Greymore.” He 
paused. 

^‘Certainly,’’ was Llewellyn's only answer. 

“And if I ask you a question will you, for my sake, answer it 
truthfully?" Dale continued. 

“I shall answer it truthfully if I can answer it at all." 

“Then tell me, is Grace Wilton more to you than a friend — 
a mere friend?" 

For a time Llewellyn was silent, then slowly he replied : 
“She is." 

“Then I must believe, as I have always suspected, that you 
love her?" 

Again the answer was in the affirmative. 

“And Grace knows of your love, I presume?" 

“Yes, she knows all." 

“Then you are engaged. It is well. Dr. Greymore, that I 
found you there this evening — it is well that I asked the ques- 
tion. May I offer my congratulations — you — ^you have certainly 
won a prize." 

The car rushed madly forward as he finished but the speed 
was again lessened as Llewellyn replied. 

“You are mistaken, Mr. Clinton; I am deserving of your 
congratulations — I have won a prize, but — but you are mistaken 
— I am not engaged to Grace." 

“Not engaged!" Dale exclaimed. “Not engaged! and yet 
you confess that she is more to you than a mere friend — you 
.love her — and she knows of your love." 

“Yes, yes, all that." 

“All that," Dale repeated; “all that, but not engaged? And 
why? — I know she has not refused you." 

“No, she has not refused me — I have never asked her to be 
my wife — I never shall — ere long you will understand me — now, 
I can give you no other explanation — I can only say, Grace will 
never be my wife." 


A PROPOSAL RENEWED 


319 


“Then you do not love her; you do not love her,” Dale re- 
peated and Llewellyn replied: 

“I have answered each question truthfully; and I give you my 
word upon it, I shall never stand in the way of another man who 
loves her.” 

Dale was silent — the car drew up at the hotel and Llewellyn 
alighted. 

“Thank you, Dr. Greymore; thank you,” Dale exclaimed, ex- 
tending his hand. 

“Not at all,” Llewellyn returned. “I am greatly indebted to 
you for my ride. Good-night, Mr. Clinton ;” and he watched the 
car speed down the avenue. 

Two days later Llewellyn came again to Vale Cottage, bring- 
ing with him the package and letter from General Greymore. 
He found Mrs. Allington, Grace and Lillian on the veranda, but 
after a time Lillian slipped away. Then Mrs. Allington led the 
way to her room — there they would not be disturbed — and un- 
tying the cord of the package which Llewellyn placed upon the 
table, Grace reverently took from its box the carefully folded 
sailor-suit of navy blue. There was the little white anchor on 
the front of the ^waist — the stars on either corner of the wide 
collar — the narrow band of white around the left sleeve, and 
tears came to Mrs. Allington’s eyes and her voice was choked as 
she said : 

“How dear this little suit was to me — how dear was the boy 
who wore it.” 

Fondly she caressed the little half-worn slippers which Grace 
placed in her hand; eagerly she took from Llewellyn the little 
golden ring, plainly engraved with the letters “E. L. W.” 

“And where is the cap — the little white duck cap with bands 
of navy blue — have you the cap, Eldred?” she asked at last. 

“No, mother! I suppose the cap was lost in the sea. It was 
never found.” 

“Oh, how near my boy came to being lost!” she exclaimed. 
“How long he has been lost to me! How dear was the hus- 
band — your father — who went down with that burning, sinking 
wreck! How thankful I am to say once more ‘this is my son — 
my Eldred !’ ” 

Attentively she listened to General Greymore’s letter, never 


S20 kdSELIN 

taking her eyes from Llewellyn’s face as he read. It was only 
Llewellyn’s story repeated. 

“Are you satisfied with my proofs, mother?” he asked, as he 
finished and laid the letter in her lap. 

“Satisfied, Eldred? Yes, your story and the picture in the 
little locket were sufficient proofs to satisfy your mother.” 

“And the simple word ‘sister’ as fully convinced me,” Grace 
laughed. 

“Convinced you for the moment, Grace, but you doubted in 
the year which followed,” Llewellyn reproached. 

“For one year I did not — I trusted — I believed — I thought you 
would come to us and prove yourself my brother. I never once 
thought that Llewellyn Greymore could deceive ; but you did not 
come and another year passed and — and, yes, Llewellyn, I fear 
I disbelieved that you were the same Eldred Wilton — my 
brother — who had been lost nineteen years before. Yes, I’m sure 
I doubted.” 

“You doubted,” Llewellyn repeated. “But I trust you will 
never need to do so again, Grace — I trust my mother will never 
doubt.” 

“Why, Eldred, I cannot doubt — no other proof is needed — 
Dr. Greymore is my son — I cannot deny it — no one can deny.” 
Mrs. Allington smiled through her tears, and again Llewellyn 
drew both mother and sister within the circle of his arms. 

An hour passed and the three talked on. The house was very 
still except for the murmur of voices. Delia had gone to New 
Orleans for the day and Lillian, alone in her room, knelt by the 
window asking for strength to bury her love beneath a calm 
exterior, during the remaining days of her stay at Vale Cottage. 
She longed to be away — she had written to Willard, urging them 
to hasten on to St. Louis, but several days must pass before she 
could hear from him, and daily association with Llewellyn was 
now, she felt, almost unbearable. Calmly she arose from her 
knees and silently she left the house. She was quite composed 
now, and slowly she walked through the garden, gathering here 
and there a swaying blossom. At last she wandered through the 
little gate and out into the meadow again. Almost daily she 
walked there, but she did not stop at the mossy log where Llew- 
ellyn had found her. It brought back so vividly each word he 


A PROPOSAL RENEWED 


331 


had said that day — it brought back the memories of the past, 
and she had no wish to recall them — she only hoped to forget. 

Some time later as she entered the garden-gate, she met 
Grace and Llewellyn. Grace's face was bright and smiling — 
Llewellyn’s attempting to be grave. She would have retreated 
but it was too late. Grace came up to her and seizing her hand 
almost dragged her forward to Llewellyn. 

‘'Oh, Lillian, I want to introduce my brother — Dr. Eldred 
Llewellyn Wilton Greymore — my brother whom we thought was 
dead !” she exclaimed jubilantly, and turning she fled up the 
path to the veranda and left them alone. 

“Lillian, my darling — will you not forgive me? — ^you have not 
judged me wrongly — I have deceived you — I love Grace — she is 
my sister — Mrs. Allington, my mother. Tell me, Lillian, that 
you forgive — tell me that you love me — now that you know I am 
Eldred Llewellyn Wilton — with the same true heart you gave me 
years ago. Tell me that our engagement is not broken, dearest, 
and make this day a happy one, with the love of mother, sister 
and betrothed.” 

Again the diamond ring was placed upon her finger and she 
made no attempt to free herself from the arms which quickly 
drew her to him and held her fast. 

“Lillian, my sweetheart, I have loved so long,” he whispered, 
passionately kissing the beautiful, blushing face. 


21 


322 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XLVI 

A SETTING SUN 

“This horrid dark room! I can never spend the day here — 
never!” Wilma complained, as she sank wearily into a chair and 
looked about the neatly furnished apartment of the St. Louis 
hotel. “You have not the least consideration for my wishes — 
your sister’s comfort — Willard, or you would not have taken this 
apartment — so dull and dreary.” 

“I telegraphed for the best they had, Wilma, and after all it 
is the rain falling outside — the darkness of the sky — which makes 
the room dark and dreary.” 

“And have you forgotten that Lillian is perhaps waiting for 
Us alone some place in this building? Her trip to the south was 
a foolish one. Vale Cottage is the last place I should wish to 
visit, and I do not wonder that she urged us to hurry on to St. 
Louis. Leave me alone with Clarice and bring her to me at 
once,” she commanded, and obediently her brother left her, and 
went to see if Lillian had yet arrived. She had not — the train 
was not due for half an hour — and he determined to meet her 
at the station with a carriage, but when he went back to Wilma’s 
room, he found her so weak and exhausted from the trip that 
he decided not to leave her. 

The trip through the lake region had not proven beneficial, 
as the doctors had hoped, and her cheeks were thinner and more 
sunken than when she had left Boston, little more than two 
weeks since — her eyes were larger and more brilliant — ^the deep 
circles beneath them darker and more distinct. Her lips were 
colorless, but a crimson spot burned on her cheek and her white 
hands were blue-veined and thin. As Willard looked at her he 
recalled the year of his mother’s failing health and he felt that 
his sister was fast following in her footsteps. 

He waited anxiously for Lillian’s arrival. She would find 
him changed, too, he thought, for in a little town, on the shore 
of Lake Michigan, he had resolved that the wine-glass should 
never again be raised to his lips. For the sake of his invalid 


A SETTING SUN 


323 


sister — the sister who had done him so great a wrong in the past 
— for the sake of his love for Genevieve, whom he had learned 
was still free — for the sake of Lillian’s earnest prayers — the sis- 
ter he so dearly loved — he would reform; and for more than a 
week not a drop of alcoholic liquor had passed the lips which had 
uttered that solemn promise, made only to himself and God. 
But it was as faithfully kept as was the promise he gave his 
dying father, for Willard had fully repented for the folly of the 
years past, and he was as fully resolved that the future should 
be different. Genevieve could not even respect him now — her 
love would die — and he determined to become the man he was 
when she had known him — the man he was two years before— 
a man whom Genevieve could gladly call her husband — a brother 
for whom his sisters need never shrink. 

Patiently he listened to Wilma’s complaining remarks; gently 
he strove to soothe and comfort her. It was of little use; she 
had grown quite restless and the flush upon her cheeks had 
deepened. 

^It seems that Lillian will never come,” she said impatiently. 
‘Tut my shawl around me, Willard; and, Clarice, bring me a 
drink.” 

Willard drew the shawl around her and a moment later Lil- 
lian burst into the room. She was not alone as they had ex- 
pected ; Llewellyn Greymore was with her, and quickly throw- 
ing off her damp cloak she hastened to Wilma’s side. 

“Are you not feeling better, sister?” she asked anxiously^ 
caressing Wilma’s thin cheek. 

“Better!” she returned; “I am only worn by these three 
weeks of travel — tired of this dreary place. Do not think me 
ill, Lillian !” 

But one glance at her face told Lillian that Wilma was in- 
deed ill, just as Willard’s manner — everything about him, in fact 
— told her that he was successfully striving, fighting, against the 
habit which had almost dragged him down to the lowest level 
of sin; and her heart beat with mingled sadness and joy as she 
glanced from sister to brother. 

To Llewellyn they were more greatly changed. In Willard’s 
face he found, plainly written, the marks of dissipation, which 
one week of temperance could not wipe out — but his face was 
handsome still — his form proudly erect. 


324 


ROSELIN 


“Llewellyn has something good to tell you,” Lillian began 
after a time; “something wonderfully good!” 

“Go on, Greymore; do not keep us waiting for the good 
things you have to tell,” said Willard; and again Llewellyn told 
the story of his life; again his listeners were surprised and 
bewildered. 

“It cannot be I” Wilma exclaimed. “You the son of Mrs. 
Allington? — Grace’s brother? Impossible!” and a look of disap- 
pointment settled upon her face, for after all it was not the son 
of General Windford Greymore whom she was addressing — he 
was the son of Evelyn Allington, the stepmother whom she had 
hated. “It cannot be !” she repeated. 

“I assure you. Miss Wilma, my mother has accepted me as 
her son — Lillian has accepted me as her retrieved lover, and I 
am now asking you to accept me as a brother — the future hus- 
band of your sister.” 

“Accept you, Greymore;” Willard broke in; “gladly will we 
accept you ; and I offer my congratulations, that you have found 
your mother and your sister. Glad for you, G?reymore!” he ex- 
claimed, heartily shaking Llewellyn’s hand. 

A touch of scorn curled Wilma’s lips, but Eldred Wilton was 
as irresistible as was Dr. Greymore, and rising, she moved slow- 
ly toward him, one white, blue-veined hand outstretched: 

“Yes, I am very glad you are happy,” she said simply. 

“Thank you, Wilma ; I am happier than I have been for many 
years,” he returned, and the glowing brightness which over- 
spread the handsome face was very different from the pallid- 
ness — the gloom — which settled upon the features of the girl 
whose hand he held. 

Vividly she remembered the day when she had said to him, 
“Don’t call Grace Wilton my sister ! It seems incredible that 
you could have imagined her to be one of our family. A sister 
of mine! — an Allington! — indeed!” and she felt that Llewellyn 
Wikon — Grace’s brother — must necessarily hate her. Once she 
had striven to gain his love and she knew not until now, how 
utterly she had failed, but Louis Mandel’s love was hers and 
the likes or dislikes of Llewellyn Greymore — the son of Mrs. 
Allington — Lillian’s betrothed — could matter little to her. When 
she returned to Boston in the early spring, the bloonr of health 


A SETTING SUN 


325 


would be upon her cheek again, she thought, and in the first 
days of summer she would be a bride — a more beautiful bride 
Boston would never see — and lost in the dreams of the future — • 
the future she would never see — she partially forgot the wrongs 
she had done in the past — and which were now continually com- 
ing up before her — she forgot Llewellyn’s joys. 

On an afternoon train Llewellyn departed for Chicago and 
on the morning following, Willard and his sisters started for 
Southern California. 

There the winter passed amid sunshine and flowers and for a 
time Wilma’s health seemed improving. She often touched the 
crimson spots which burned brighter on her cheeks and re- 
marked : “You see the color of my cheeks grows brighter — the 
air of California has made me well, and Louis will be proud 
of his bride. I shall wear orange blossoms from this sunny 
land,” she would add, twining a spray of the waxen blossoms 
into the black waves of her hair. But while she was planning 
for her bridal, the deep shadowed twilight of death was swiftly 
approaching, and as brother and sister looked upon her — tall, 
willowy and fragile, her face pallid, save for that spot of burn- 
ing crimson — their hearts grew faint, hope fled, and tears 
dimmed their loving, watchful eyes, for they knew that the dis- 
ease was nearing its crisis and a rapid decline would surely fol- 
low. The death they had once feared for Lillian was now surely 
dawning for her sister, while she had grown strong and rosy — 
her sister’s ill health her only sorrow. 

He * * 

The warm sun of April was shining down upon mountain 
and prairie as the puffing engine with its long line of coaches 
wound its way eastward from the sunny valley of lower Califor- 
nia, and feebly raising herself from the numerous pillows, upon 
which she reclined, Wilma looked out upon the green, blossom- 
ing world, so full of life and beauty; but to her it seemed a far 
distant land — a world in which she had no part — and sinking 
back, the white lids closed and a shining tear slipped from be- 
neath the heavy lashes, laying upon the now colorless cheeks. 
Was she going back to Roselin to die? Could it be that the sun 
was sinking for her, thus early in life? Was this to be her 
fate? How could she die? — so young — so beautiful! A long. 


326 


ROSELIN 


shivering sigh shook her and Lillian drew the heavy silken folds 
of her shawl more closely about her. For a moment the big, 
black eyes unclosed and looked questioningly at brother and sis- 
ter. Why were their faces so lovingly tender and sad? Why 
did each passenger look at her with the same long, pitying gaze? 
Yes, they thought she was going home to die; but after all they 
might be wrong, for how could she die! How could she leave 
Louis 1 She must not die — no she must not. 

Over and over again Lillian’s heart had echoed that same 
sad cry : ‘‘She cannot die ; she must not die !” and earnestly she 
had prayed that she might live to know the brighter path of 
Righteousness before the light of life grew dark forever. 

During that homeward journey Wilma grew strangely calm 
and patient. Suddenly she had come to realize that another life 
was dawning for her, that the sun which had shone brightly 
during the twenty-seven years of her life was dimmed and sink- 
ing. She felt the pleasures, the joys of life, slipping from her 
grasp and, as if in answer to her sister’s prayers, she felt a 
golden thread stretching out through the darkness of death and 
drawing her nearer to the bright, shining lights of Heaven. 

Tired, weary and exhausted, she reached Roselin and sank 
down upon the bed in her own room. The old servants had 
been gathered together again and the place had regained a part 
of its former beauty. She was again surrounded with the lux- 
urious comforts of home and gladly she rested there — the bou- 
quet of orchids, which Louis had sent, lying on the pillow with 
their dainty pinkness just touching the crimson of her cheek. 
Each day following, some rare, fragrant or beautiful flowers 
came to brighten the room which she was now quite unable to 
leave, and now and then Louis came to spend days at Roselin. 
Then her eyes would grow brighter, her voice stronger, as for 
a time she dreamed of the day when she would be a bride. But 
when he had gone she would smooth the satin folds of the gown 
which was to form a part of her trousseau and crushing down 
the choking sob which arose to her throat she would murmur 
sadly: “No, I must die; I have come back to Roselin to die.” 

The days wore slowly on; the hills grew green, and at last 
the sun set for the last time in the fading month of April, rising 
again to kiss the sparkling dews of May. Wilma opened her 


A SETTING SUN 


327 


eyes and looked out upon the world — bright, green and joyous 
with the song of birds. Then wearily she turned on her pillow 
and for a time lay so still that Lillian, thinking her asleep, 
moved softly toward the door. Again her eyes opened and reach- 
ing out her hand she called her to her. 

**My dearest sister,'' she murmured; “you are so good to me 

— so kind — so patient — and I — I ; forgive me, Lilly, for every 

piercing word I've spoken — for everything I've done to cause you 
pain. For my sake, forget that your sister was aught save gentle 
and kind;" and Lillian, laying her round, rosy cheek upon her 
sister’s thin, white one, only sobbed: “Forgive you, Wilma? — 
I have nothing to forgive." 

“There are several things I wish you to do for me, Lillian,” 
Wilma went on, struggling hard to crush the pride which had 
reigned supremely before this moment. “I want Grace and her 
mother to come to Roselin,” she hurried on. “I want them to 
be with you when I am gone — she will be your mother always, 
Lillian, when you are Llewellyn's wife — and I want them with 
us now. I want to tell them I've repented — ^before it is too late.” 

The last sentence was almost whispered and Lillian, bathing 
the hair which lay in waving coils upon the pillow, with her 
tears, silently kissed the smooth, white brow. 

“Will you send for them, Lillian — will you telegraph for them 
at once?" 

“If my sister wishes it, I will gladly do it," Lillian replied. 

“Yes, Lillian, I wish it, and I must see Mrs. Layton — I must 
see Genevieve before I die.” 

It was the first time she had spoken of death and with a 
quick shudder Lillian exclaimed: “Oh, Wilma, you cannot die! 
You must not die 1" 

jjc ♦ sK ★ * 

The evening sun was setting and the warm red glow of the 
western sky was softly reflected on Wilma's pale cheek. It was 
the second week of May, and a warm, gentle breeze floated in at 
the open window, whispering to her messages of love and 
flowers, but her strength was fast failing and with colorless lips, 
and eyes that had become dull, shaded by almost transparent 
lids, she lay quite motionless. For days Mrs. Allington and 
Grace had been at Roselin, and Llewellyn, too, was there; but 


328 


ROSELIN 


Genevieve had not come. She was busy with her work in Lowell 
and there was no vacation for her until after the middle of May, 
and Wilma might live to see the first days of summer. 

“Will Genevieve never come?” she had asked again and again, 
and Lillian had as many times written to Genevieve, begging her 
to come as soon as possible, to Roselin. 

“Will she never come?” she asked again one evening, as she 
looked up into Mrs. Allington’s face. “She has just cause to 
hate me, but will she not come?” 

“Yes, she is coming, Wilma,” was the gentle reply, as Mrs. 
Allington smoothed the curls back from her forehead. “A few 
more days and Genevieve will come.” 

“I am glad,” was the only answer, and again her eyes closed ; 
then again they opened. “It is kind of her — it is good of you 
and Grace — it is more than I deserve,” she said softly. “Oh, 
have you really forgiven me? I was wrong — I was cruel — when 
I might have loved you,” she went on; “but I am most severely 
punished — I am receiving my reward — I am dying when I had 
hoped to be a bride.” 

“Po not talk, Wilma; it tires you and you should sleep.” 

“I shall not grieve over that part of life I am losing if I only 
know that I am forgiven for the past. Let me hear you say 
once more that I am forgiven; then I can sleep.” 

Mrs. Allington’s face was white, her heart throbbing with 
pain and grief as she stooped to kiss the brow of the proud girl 
who was bowing low for her forgiveness. “My dear, I have 
long ago forgiven you,” she replied. “I shall leave Lillian with 
you now while you sleep.” 

“No, Grace, too, must tell me again that all the wrongs I 
have done her are forgiven, before I sleep. Oh, how great were 
those wrongs !” she exclaimed, pressing one thin hand to her 
ey^s to force back the tears which burned on the long lashes. 

“Can she ever fully forgive me ; can she ever forget the sins — 
my sins — which drove her from Roselin?” 

A smothered sob choked her and her hand fell from her face 
only to raise quickly, though feebly, and stretch upward to Grace 
whom she found standing at her side. 

“Oh, Grace, why didn’t I love you when I could have helped 
you?” she asked sadly, drawing Grace’s face down near her own. 


A SETTING SUN 


329 


Grace’s head sank down upon the pillow beside the pale face 
of the girl whose arms clung so closely about her. 

“Yes, Wilma, I have forgiven everything,” Grace whispered 
at last, raising her head and looking down tenderly upon th^ 
earnest, repentant face, white with bitterness of past sins and 
the steady approach of death. 

“‘Everything’ — ‘everything’,” Wilma repeated slowly; “you 
do not realize, Grace, how much that means.” 

“It matters not how much I am forgiving, Wilma, I only 
know that I have forgiven all.” 

“Everything,” Wilma repeated again; then slowly she went 
on : “What more can I ask of you, Grace, except that you forget 
my very memory? Yes, forget me, for otherwise you can never 
forget my sins.” 

“I have no wish to forget you, Wilma, and to ask it would 
be asking for a promise which my heart could not truthfully 
give — which my mind could not faithfully keep — so do not ask 
for it; but, remember, Wilma, that while you are forgiven for 
every wrong, your memory is not forgotten; you cannot wish us 
to forget you.” 

“No, no; you all know best. You will think of me as kindly 
as you can and I must be satisfied.” 

Grace gently unwound the arms from about her neck; and 
firmly pressing both the cold, white hands in hers, she placed 
them again upon the covers. 

“Rest now, Wilma, and sleep if you can, and know that you' 
are forgiven.” 

She bent and kissed the snow-white brow, then turned and 
noiselessly followed her mother from the room. 

“Lillian,” Wilma began, when they were gone, “if Genevieve 
does not come until it is too late, you must tell her what I 
wished to say and I trust she will forget that Willard’s sister 
ever did her wrong. It was I, Lillian, who wrote her that let- 
ter — it was I who found the one Willard wrote to her — I who 
destroyed it — but I have repented — yes, I have repented. I have 
seen Willard’s life at Lakeview — I know a part of what he suf- 
fered — I saw him starting down the drunkard’s path, and I know 
that the fault was mine. If my letter had been unwritten, my 
brother would have been noble, pure and true — but I could not 


330 


ROSELIN 


sympathize — I could not help him — ^my pride would not stoop so 
low. But thank God, he has reformed and is in every way worthy 
of Genevieve Layton's love. Tell her for my sake to make Wil- 
lard happy." 

Only the short quickly drawn breaths revealed to Wilma the 
pain, sorrow and surprise her words brought to her sister, and 
raising large, pleading eyes to her face, she asked: ‘‘Can you 
forgive your sister so great a sin; will you tell Genevieve all, 
Lillian ?" 

“Yes, I can forgive you any sin, Wilma; and I shall gladly 
do all you ask; but you will see her, sister, for she is coming 
day after tomorrow." 

“Yes, I may see her," Wilma returned doubtfully. “Is Louis 
coming tomorrow, Lillian?” 

“No, he cannot come tomorrow, but ere long he will come 
again." 

“Yes, he will come;” and turning wearily on her pillow she 
fell asleep, while Lillian still caressed her white hand. 

She slept long and heavily and Llewellyn came softly in to 
watch with Lillian. The hours wore slowly on. The glowing 
red of the sky had faded, and in the shadowed twilight Wilma's 
face gleamed marble white; her long, loosened hair wreathing it 
with a frame, black as midnight, and only her sister's smothered 
sobs mingled with the heavy breathing of the fair sleeper. 

Another day came and went and again the sun was setting — 
the last that would ever set for Wilma, for as its long, slanting 
rays streamed in at the windows of her room, she knew she 
would not see the dawn, and clasping her brother’s hand in hers, 
she whispered: 

“Genevieve will not come, but tell her, Willard, that I would 
gladly call her ‘sister' ; I should gladly welcome the day that 
would make her my brother's wife. But I can not live to see 
my wish fulfilled. I'm sorry I did you both so great a wrong; 
but God has forgiven me, Willard, and for my sake, think ten- 
derly of your sister's memory.” 

The long, dark lashes sank heavily upon the thin, colorless 
cheek, and as often as they raised, her eyes sought the faces of 
brother and sister. “I loved you, but I did you wrong," she 
murmured ; and striving to catch the first sound of another foot- 
step, the first sound of Louis’ voice, she fell asleep. 


A SETTING SUN 


331 


When at last she awoke, Genevieve was bending over her. 

“Genevieve she whispered, as her long, white fingers 

closed over hers, “forgive me — I was wrong.” Her hand, still 
weakly clasping Genevieve’s, moved feebly toward Willard and 
voluntarily his closed over them both — his sister’s and his only 
love’s. “Make Willard happy,” she went on slowly; “and do not 
hate his sister.” 

Again her eyelids closed and for a time she seemed sleeping. 
The sound of Louis’ voice aroused her and, looking up into his 
face, a faint, trembling smile made its transient passage across 
her face-faded — and was gone, but she could only whisper: 

“Louis — you have come and with her head pillowed on 

his arm, one hand clasped in his, the other still held with Gene- 
vieve’s in Willard’s grasp, Wilma Allington again slept — the 
last, long, unawakening sleep of death. 

A solemn stillness settled upon Roselin, and Lillian, exhaust- 
ed from weeping, fell asleep wilh Llewellyn and his mother 
bending over her. Louis sat in the library, his head bowed on 
his hand, while Willard paced restlessly up and down the hall 
past the open door. 

Hours later as Genevieve passed him, he caught her in his 
arms and whispered : “At last, Genevieve — at last — Wilma has 
made it right;” and the tender, loving look in the dark, tear- 
dimmed eyes raised to his, seemed to echo: “At last — yes, at 
last;” and she hurried on to assist Grace with the many duties 
which the morning brought for them. 

For hours preceding the funeral, Louis Mandel sat by the side 
of his lost, beautiful bride — for Wilma, clad in her satin bridal 
robes, surrounded by their many soft, creamy folds, with the 
rosebuds of the bridal bouquet strewn about her and clasped in 
her waxen hands, was far more beautiful now than she had ever 
been in life. 


332 


ROSELIN 


CHAPTER XLVII 

WEDDED 

Again the June roses were blooming at Roselin, twining 
gracefully up the ornate Corinthian columns, and almost hiding 
them with the crimson and white of their blossoms. Roselin 
was one huge bower of roses. In heavy cataracts they fell over 
the stone balustrades and hung from the veranda roof — a mass 
of yellow, pink, crimson and white. 

Little more than a year had passed since Wilma had been 
laid by her mother’s side, down by the garden wall, in plain 
view of the little lake, upon whose smooth surface the sun shone 
down with a dazzling brightness; little more than a year had 
passed since Genevieve had promised to be Willard’s wife, and 
on this day Wilma’s wish was to be fulfilled and Genevieve was 
to be a bride. 

The little white cottage was clad in sunshine and flowers, and 
Genevieve’s expressive face, bright and smiling, surrounded by 
the white cloud of her bridal veil, was as sweet and beautiful as 
the fairest of June brides, and as Willard led her to the floral 
bower beneath which the ceremony was to be performed, he 
looked lovingly down upon her queenly form and gracefully 
bent head. The diamond bandeau — his gift to her — was spar- 
kling among the fragrant bells of the lilies-of-the-valley in her 
hair; the diamond necklace was sparkling at her throat, and his 
face gleamed with love and the joy of claiming her. 

The little wedding, solemnized in the presence of many of 
the village folk, was very different from the grand wedding in 
Boston when Marie had been his bride and when with a firm, 
sad face he had led her from the church — his wife. Now he 
looked eagerly forward to a future of happiness with Gene- 
vieve — his model — his ideal — and at the first opportunity he drew 
her into his arms and whispered: 

^'Genevieve — my wife — I love you now even more than I have 
loved before.” 


WEDDED 


333 


But even before the marriage at the cottage, the village was 
astir with rumors of a double wedding at Roselin. Grace’s en- 
gagement to the young southern lawyer had been announced, 
and during his visits. Dale had been admired by all the village, 
while Llewellyn — the lost and recovered son of Mrs. Allington — 
was the hero of their little town — the man whom all would se- 
lect as the husband of Lillian Allington. And two weeks later, 
while the June roses were yet blooming, and Roselin gay with 
the song of birds, perfumed by the fragrance of flowers, both 
Grace and Lillian were wedded. 

Brightly the sun arose on their wedding morn, and in the 
full glow of its rosy rays Llewellyn drew Lillian’s arm through 
his and strolled to the margin of the lake. 

“My little sweetheart needs to forget the hurried preparations 
inside — she needs to have a breath of fresh air — she needs to see 
how beautiful the world really is, on this — our wedding-day — 
and, Lillian darling, when next we stroll here you will be my 
own dear wife.” 

He paused, and bending down, kissed her rosy lips and gold- 
en curls. Her cheeks grew delicately pink, her lips faintly smiled 
and her eyes looked out across the little lake to the green, vel- 
vety slopes beyond as she murmured softly, sweetly: 

“Yes, Llewellyn, only a few more hours and I shall be your 
wife — you my husband — but our feet are to tread the lands of 
Europe before we stroll here again at Roselin.” 

She finished half sadly, and taking her face between his 
hands, Llewellyn raised it till her eyes met his. 

“And would my bride prefer remaining here, at Roselin, 
rather than traveling through Europe and seeing the wonderous 
beauties of the foreign lands?” he asked. 

“Oh, no, no!” she exclaimed. “Not that; our ocean voyage, 
our travels abroad, will be grand — Willard, Dale, you and your 
brides, and your mother to accompany us ! — how dear of her to 
consent to all our plans. It will be beautiful, Llewellyn; but it 
was Wilma who always longed to visit Europe — she, who was 
denied the joys which are given me — while I could be happily 
contented here — alone with you, my husband.” 

“We shall always be happy, dear, no matter where our feet 
may wander,” he whispered; “and my wife deserves many joys.” 


334 


ROSELIN 


They walked slowly back to meet General Greymore, who, 
with feeble steps, came down the path toward them. 

“Miss Grace is waiting for your opinion about some flowers, 
my dear,” he said, laying a fatherly hand tenderly on Lillian’s 
shoulder and she tripped lightly away, leaving General Greymore 
alone with his adopted son — his only child. 

“My boy,” he said, as they watched the slight figure hurry- 
ing away from them, “I rejoice in your happiness, and to her I 
am giving the gift I prize most highly — a man whom, I have no 
doubt, will prove a true and worthy husband — my dear and only 
son.” 

There was a slight tremor in his voice and Llewellyn’s strong, 
young hand closed over the one which had fast grown feeble. 
“Have no fear, my dear father; I shall strive to prove worthy 
of her love — a worthy gift from you — my father to my bride.” 

And when the appointed hour came and he looked upon Llew- 
ellyn — tall and noble, his handsome face gleaming and bright as 
he moved up the aisle, which the guests had formed, to meet 
his bride — ^he felt all the love and pride of a father fill his heart. 
’Twas the little boy whom he had taken from the fishermen — 
cold, wet and limp — almost twenty-one years ago, and now he 
was standing at his sister’s side — she herself a bride — taking for 
his wife the daughter of his mother’s husband. 

Every guest stood breathless as they met beneath the white 
and pink canopy of roses, gathered from the gardens at Rose- 
lin. Very different were the brides — one tall, dark and wil- 
lowy — the other, small, golden-haired and fairy-like. Lillian’s 
sweet face was almost lost in the folds of her bridal veil, while 
Grace’s cheeks flushed and her dark eye-lashes drooped as 
Dale — more solemn than she had ever before seen him — an- 
swered firmly, distinctly, the questions which bound them for life. 

They were wedded — and the moon cast upon Roselin a light 
as soft, as mellow, as the sun’s last rays had been brilliant. 
Llewellyn and Lillian — Dale and Grace — Willard and Genevieve 
were wedded, and Mrs. Allington was mother to them all. 

* * * ♦ ♦ 

Five years later, and one glance at Baltimore, where the 
office of Carlson & Collins remains unchanged, shows us 


WEDDED 


335 


Chester Collins a bachelor still. Mr. Carlson’s dark locks have 
grown quite grey, but his quiet manner remains the same; 
and more than one girl has occupied Genevieve’s chair, but 
never has one filled the place which she had left vacant. 

Adelaide Richard has, for more than two years, been the 
wife of Louis Mandel, and though the memory of Wilma — his 
lost bride — lingers still, he has learned how dear the sweet 
winning ways of the former have always been to him since 
the days when they played together in the old New Hampshire 
hills; and from the windows of her home, just opposite the 
University, Adelaide — a loved and happy wife — watches the 
students come and go during the school term and listens to the 
birds singing in the evergreens during the summer days. 

Turning from Baltimore we look upon the little cottage in 
Greenfield where Mrs. Carrelton and her single maid live. Mis- 
erably the days pass for her, and enviously she looks from her 
doorway upon Lakeview — clearly visible amid the green of the 
swaying trees which shadow it. Robert Layton and his young 
wife live there with his mother, and the prospering young farmer 
and his family are thoroughly hated by the poor woman, who 
for years had called Lakeview her home and who now owes 
the few luxuries she still affords, to the generosity of Willard 
Allington. 

Five years — and the sun is still shining upon Roselin — the 
*“ home of Dr. Eldred Llewellyn Greymore. For a time after 
their return from Europe, Llewellyn had resumed his work as a 
physician in Chicago, but after the death of General Greymore, 
they went back to Roselin. The prospering little village of Ash- 
ville had more need of him than the bustling city, and there he 
determined to devote himself to the work of his chosen profes- 
sion; and as we look upon Roselin for the last time it is upon 
a gay and happy group. 

Willard and Genevieve have come down from Boston — Grace 
and Dale from their New Orleans home — to visit Roselin while 
the June roses are blooming — and with them is Mrs. Allington, 
who spends a part of her time with Grace and a part of it at 
Roselin with her son and Lillian. She is never happier than 


DEC 6 1913 


336 ROSELIN 

when little Algerine Clinton and Margaret Evelyn — Llewellyn's 
brown-eyed, fair-haired daughter — are lisping at her side, and 
Genevieve's tiny son nestling in her arms; and Lillian — ^bright, 
smiling little hostess — often looks lovingly at them as she whis- 
pers to Willard her wish that he might paint them. 

Willard is now a noted artist of Boston, while his wife is 
petted, flattered — but never spoiled — by society; and often times 
as he bends lovingly over her shoulder to kiss his son's small 
cheek, he exclaims : 

‘'God grant that I shall never ask my child to wed for 
wealth." 




1 





